


Hello Sunshine

by Catsitta



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bittybones (Undertale), As well as healthy relationships, Car Accidents, Denial, Fluff and Angst, Gaslighting, Gen, Helper Bitties, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, NON GENDERED READER, Nicknamed Reader, No barrier, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Reader-Insert, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Trauma Recovery, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, implied disordered eating, reader adopts bitties, rescue bitties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsitta/pseuds/Catsitta
Summary: According to that unspoken rule book of life, you did everything right. You were the good little doormat that did what you were told all through childhood. You went to college and graduated with honors. You became the model young adult with the salary job and tiny one bedroom apartment. Your debts were paid.Yet all it took was a single car accident to send you into a complete breakdown.Even the brightest stars eventually burn out. Or perhaps you never shined at all. But maybe you can find yourself—the real you—with a little help from an emotional support bittie...or two...BittyBones AU | Reader Insert | Nicknamed Reader





	1. Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first reader-insert/2nd POV fic. Be gentle dear readers. 
> 
> This story focuses on mental health and relationships. Emphasis on platonic bonds but there will be deeper relationships between the bitties themselves because I am a sucker for flirting and awkward romancing in fics.

“See you this time next week!”

Dr. Davis’ smile follows you out of the room, his voice too warm for the sterile hallway leading to his cozy office. The walls and floor are a matching white, stark, unlike the gentle hardwoods that surrounded you for the past hour. A colorful pamphlet rests heavy in your palm, slightly damp and crumpled from being wrung in rarely idle hands. You swallow down the sticky dryness clinging to your throat and tongue, trying to quell the feeling of a tiny elven village hosting a party in your stomach. Your face itches. Holding back tears does that. It’s not healthy to bottle up emotions people say, but every time you let your thoughts stray, allow your guard to falter, the broken dam floods again and you’re swept up in the rapids, head pulled under a churning riot of foam and white noise. There’s a reason why you’re in therapy. At least this first session wasn’t a horror story of stained carpet and disinterested dismissal. 

Old tennis shoes squeak as you shuffle to the reception desk and pay your bill, the perky girl flashing a too-white grin between answering phone calls and confirming your next appointment. There’s twenty gallon fish tank on the wall behind her. Zebra danios and neon tetras dart through overgrown greenery and there is cheesy, neon-pink mini-castle tucked amongst the untamed plants. It’s a welcome distraction until the girl hands over the receipt. Stowing it away with your wallet, you step through automatic doors into the bright warmth of the late morning, a little dazed and still a touch ill, hands tucked into the pockets of a thin hoodie. Despite the heavy humidity clinging to the air that promised a balmy afternoon, you purposefully wore long sleeves, only in part to keep away the arctic chill of the office. Harder to think about bruises when you can’t see them.

The blare of a car horn cuts through your post-therapy fog, dragging a genuine smile to the surface. “Are their computers running on DOS or something? You were in there forever!” Hanging out the rolled-down window of her silver SUV was your best friend, Mia, her dark, curly hair left free to halo her face, oversized sunglasses adding to the utterly cartoonish charm of her pout. She nudges the glasses low on her nose and takes a long sip from a half-empty cup of iced coffee, dark-red lipstick staining the straw, all the while staring you in the eyes with quirked eyebrows and a smirk. “Jealous?”

“Obviously, you went to Starbucks without me.”

She smacks her lips, “Don’t be hatin’, you don’t even like coffee.” You shake your head and chuckle at familiar sass, opening up the passenger door and climbing in. Mia flops back behind the steering wheel, “So, how was the Doc? Nice as the reviews say or do I need to break out my inner abuela and tear him apart on Yelp?” She is pretty good at that actually. Be wary all those that invoke her five foot two wrath, because boy can she compose a killer rant when she's in a mood.

“No, he's fine. He recommended meditation to help with my sleep and—” your voice trails off, and you look down at the pamphlet crushed in your hands. There's a crinkle of a paper bag and Mia thrusts a cake pop in your face.

“You didn't have to.”

She snorts, “Like I would forget about you, hun. Past couple days have been rough. Lemme spoil you a bit. Now, wanna tell me about your appointment or no?” Your eyes trail down the side of her bare thigh, lingering on the purpling marks leading to a bandaged knee. Your voice catches in your throat, and you look away, unable to stomach the idea of the sweet. It was your fault. All your fault. Yet here she is, buying you treats and driving you to therapy, when you're the reason she has those injuries. Why she went to the hospital for stitches above her eyebrow and had X-Rays to make sure her wrists weren't fractured.

“Hun. Hun! It's okay. Shh. Stay with me. You don't have to say a thing, okay? Let's get you home. I have late shift tonight so I'll raid your fridge for lunch. Make sure you eat properly, ” She rubs your shoulder, open to a hug if you need it. She's never turned down a hug. You don't deserve her. 

Before she can start the car (send your heart racing, your gut rolling), you hold up the glossy paper Dr. Davis gave you at the end of the session. Mia examines the cover, “Mama Cry's Helpers?” She thumbs through it, eying photos of tiny skeletons and other miniature creatures. Bitties, as they were known as in short, were the creation of a monster scientist nearly twenty years ago. They became an instant hit with both humans and monsters as pets, their intelligence and magical nature making them ideal companions. For a time there was advocacy against treating the tiny creatures the same as a parrot or other exotic animal, but Dr. W. D. Gaster assured the public that bitties were incapable of living 'wild’. They wanted to be useful, it was programed into their very souls. A bittie without the care of a human or monster was akin to letting a domesticated cow fend for itself in the tundra. It was unviable and cruel.

“You gonna do it? Get a bittie, I mean.” Mia lifts her brows, her tone a little brighter, as if you suggested adopting the cat you always planned on but your apartment forbid. 

You laugh, unable to keep the damp bitterness from it, “Minnie…”

“Don't Minnie me. I want to know if I am taking you home or to this Mama Cry place.”

“It's a bad idea. I...when I can go back to work, I'll never be home. It'll get lonely.”

“People take their bitties everywhere these days. Or get two! Always better to get social pets in pairs. I mean, there are fluffy ones, bet you could get one that looks like a cat!”

“My lease? No pets allowed.”

“Emotional support bittie. See, they even have these little certifications for what they're trained in. First aid, sign language, all sorts of stuff. Your apartment can't legally prevent you from keeping a helper. If they try, I'll call my dad. He likes you.” And is from a long line of lawyers. If Mia took after him in any way, it is her stubborn assurance once she sets her mind on a goal. “Next argument?”

Protests die on faltering lips. Dark brown eyes bear down with the ferocity of a modern day Amazon, daring you to keep up the fight. Your lips smooth into a wry line as you weakly repeat, “It's a bad idea.”

“How? I'd do it in a heartbeat.”

“Reminder that I am your impulse control.”

Mia popped the plastic cup into the holder, “And I'm the reason you ever leave your place for anything but work. Balance, hun, live a little. Who's it gonna hurt?”

You fight the urge to snatch the pamphlet back, choosing instead to fiddle with your seatbelt, eyes diverted to your lap, “The bitties, possibly.” Probably. You hurt Mia. If you could hurt the one person you adored most in the world, then a tiny, helpless creature didn't belong in your care. 

“You know, you'll eventually have to forgive yourself,” she says. You don't look at her. The car rumbles as the engine turns. Your heart leaps to your throat and you grab at the seat, the window, anything you can sink your nails into, use to anchor yourself. “It was an accident. There is nothing to forgive.”

There are no words. You're drowning. Helplessly fighting the voices in your head that are screaming every profanity they can conjure. Your fault, they hiss. Mia could have died and it would have been all your fault. You shouldn't have been driving. Highways are a weakness of yours, too many cars, too fast, too many unknown variables. Mia offered to drive (why didn't you just take her car like always? What were you trying to prove?) but you declined. It wasn't that far and your tiny little car had better gas mileage. 

You panicked when your steering wheel jerked to the side unexpectedly, not experienced enough to regain control at that speed. Be it luck, fate, God or some other force at play, the lanes around you were empty at that moment, and no one else was between you and your collision with the wall. It happened in the span of seconds. Between blinks. The screech of tires and the weightless loss of all reality. As if it wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. Just a dream and you'd wake up in bed. Time regained meaning with the impact. 

The sight of Mia with blood on her forehead stole all other concerns. You couldn't move, paralyzed by the overwhelming realization that you could have died. She could have died. You could have killed your best friend. And yet...she turned to you, relief on her face instead of horror when she realized you were both okay. The vehicle was totaled, but the airbags did their job.

She even tried cheering you up when emergency services arrived, asking why you weren't flirting with the cute paramedic.

“Hun. Babe. Sweetie. Look at me. Look at me and breathe,” Mia's voice cut through the memory. You were trembling, choking on every breath. Your heart is trying to rip out of your chest. The rising panic held you over the edge of a gaping void, swaying precariously between safety and death. Mia's hand is suddenly in yours and you cling to it. Cling to her. She is warm and smells of lavender. “You'll get through this. I promise.”

Ten minutes later she pulls out of the parking lot and drives in the opposite direction of your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: You go to Mama Cry's Helpers
> 
> (I believe everyone needs a Mia in their lives)
> 
> Look out for chapter updates and previews on this fic and my others on my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/)! Feedback is loved. Tell me how I'm doing and if you'd like to see more.


	2. Flickering

If presented a choice between what would make you happy and what would keep you safe, you would choose safety every time. You were that way your whole life. The goody-goody two shoes that wouldn’t cross the street if there wasn’t a crosswalk or a stop sign, who either read the book or didn’t for class because Spark Notes were ‘cheating’, and who kept their mouth shut unless addressed. In short, you spent your childhood as little more than a doormat, clinging to rules and huddling within boundaries, as if somehow, maybe, it would make you good enough. Despite on a conscious level knowing mistakes are human and that failures are inevitable parts of life, the little voice at the back of your brain that sounded like your mother never failed to clothesline you at the most minor of fumble.

You were the good child.

You grew up into a good, responsible adult...right?

You hit the expected milestones, graduating from college with honors, securing a full time job in your industry before many of your peers and moving out on your own into a tiny apartment. Between scholarships and scrupulous saving, you paid off your debts. So what could possibly be wrong with you? What is your excuse? You should be happy.

Yet, you aren’t.

Never were.

How pathetic is that?

You should be able to pull together and move on, but you can’t. Instead Mia has to pick up the fragments. It is impossible to look at her the whole drive. The car is silent save for the occasional chime of the GPS. She loves to blast music and holler along off key, despite having a respectable singing voice when she tries. Instead she navigates the half-empty city streets with overt carefulness, peeking over in your direction any time she has to slow down suddenly or a car shoots by too quickly on the passenger side. It is a long, uncomfortable half hour before she pulls into a parking lot, and cuts off the engine.

Tucked between a grocery store and a yoga studio is the unremarkable storefront of Mama Cry’s Helpers. According to the booklet, these branch locations were less like pet shops than the parent stores. Bittie Helpers were trained specifically with medical needs in mind, be they disabilities or illness. Dr. Davis even filled out a little ‘prescription’ form on his computer before you left, as if this place was a pharmacy.

“C’mon huh, no harm in looking,” Mia says, hopping out of the car. “If this is a bust, I’ll take you home.”

You peel yourself out of the seat with a sweat sticky rip and follow. 

Mia is first through the door, pushing it open while nudging her sunglasses to rest on top of her head. She proceeds to make a high-pitched noise you have long since associated with her seeing something irresistibly cute. Like an ugly, squashed-face dog or a baby. “Oh my god, he’s precious! Get in here. Look, look at him.” She drags you by the arm to stand beside her, and points at what looks to be the angriest flower in the world, growing out of a bubblegum pink pot. It sits on the corner of a reception desk like a corrupted child’s crayon drawing come to life.

You question her tastes some days.

The pissed-off buttercup is about a foot tall from soil to topmost petal, and his scowl would put any Class A Rebel Teenager to shame. “What do you two idiots want?” he hisses. Before you or Mia can respond, another voice cuts in, gentle but firm, “Flowey, what did I tell you about being mean to customers?” The flower grumbles something under his breath, sulking as a young person in scrubs steps behind the counter. Their hair is brown and short, their features nondescript. It was impossible to place their ethnicity or gender with any certainty. Their name tag—Frisk—offers no further hints.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just grumpy because Mom made him come with me to work today,” Frisk says, voice tinted with apology. They pick up the grumpy flower by the pot and place him on a shelf behind them, between a stapler and a Mew Mew Kissy Cutie themed notebook.

“Is he a new sort of bittie?” Mia asks, earning a loud screech from Flowey and a laugh from Frisk.

“I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE FU—”

“Language, Flowey. Sorry about that. He’s a monster, and not just a little self-conscious about his size. People make that mistake all the time and his stem gets all twisted when it happens.” They clasp their hands together. “Now, that aside, welcome to Mama Cry’s Helpers, my name is Frisk. How may I be of service today?” 

“Bleh,” Flowey mutters in the background.

Your mouth twitches. You shouldn’t laugh, but…

“This one here is looking for a Helper!” Mia places her hands on your shoulders and urges you forward.

“Uh. Hi. That’s not…” The floor is suddenly fascinating, especially that scuff mark vaguely shaped like George Washington’s head. “Dr. Davis sent me here. I’m not one-hundred percent sure yet—”

“Oh! Can I have your name and doctor’s phone number? I’ll look you up in our system.” A few minutes later, and Frisk is scanning over the form on the front desk’s computer, face the picture of professional as they work. They pause and peek at you, squinting, staring hard at your face and then, for some inexplicable reason, at your collarbone. A chill whisks up your spine. Those eyes seem to see too much. Then their expression relaxes and they snap their fingers, “Well, I know just the place to start. Follow me.”

Mama Cry’s Helpers boasts a modest-sized floor space. The front lobby is separated from the main area by a wall, two doors on either side offering entrance to the store. The three of you pass through the leftmost marked ‘VISITORS’ and trail down a brief hallway, the walls a gentle green and smothered in informational posters. To either side, there are more doors. You pass a fake, leafy palm plant before the hallway opens up to reveal a glass-walled room. Inside are a couple more staff members, both human and monster, bustling around, each with a number of bitties clustered nearby.

“This is what we call the Work Room. We focus on socialization and putting into practice the skills each bittie is taught in order to best assist a future partner.” Frisk explains, before turning to face in the opposite direction, to yet another door. Except on either side of this one there are windows. “As you probably notice, we have a number of walled off areas. Each room in here serves a unique purpose, be it a classroom or meeting space.” They reveal a small sitting area. There is an over-loved, loveseat with permanent indentations on the cushions. A coffee table with a scattering of magazines. And yet more windows, these showing the room next door. 

Stepping inside, you can better see through the glass. In the other room is what is best described as a play area, a number of bitties involved in a plethora of possible activities. Some are socializing, others putting together a massive, likely 5000 piece puzzle, a pair are chasing each other in some version of tag, and some even napped on a squishy bean bag chair.

“Take a seat. They’ll come to the window to see you both once they realize your here. I’m going to find a couple possible Helpers that will meet your needs.”

“Er, aren’t there forms or something I need to fill out or a survey?” Or at the very least a personality test. Something to go off of before they wandered off.

Frisk flashes a confident smile, “Trust me a little. The form your doctor filled out gives me an idea what kind of Helper you need, which is great, but my job is to introduce you to a Helper that not only has the skills needed but is the right fit for you as a person. I may be young, but I’m good at reading people. We’ll find a match no problem.” They don’t allow you or Mia a word in before they are out of the room, a human force of nature at work.

“I like them,” Mia says when Frisk vanishes. 

“They remind me of your uncle.”

“Being able to take control of a situation before a customer wimps out is part of making a sale.”

“Frisk should get into the luxury car business, then.”

A tapping sound draws your attention. Both you and Mia see a smattering of bitties at the window, all in a variety of sizes and shapes. Most are skeletons, but there are a couple that resemble rabbits or cats. One even looks like a glob of spilt ink. Enthralled, the pair of you wave and tap at the glass in return, furthering their interest. 

“This is weird,” Mia says eventually. “When my little sis got one from the, well, pet stores, you just sorta looked into these enclosures, figured out what kind you wanted to adopt and then asked an employee to set up the ‘meeting’ room. Then you sat in the middle of the room and waited to see which of the bitties liked you best, if at all. If none of them did, then you either chose out a different type or tried a different store. Here they pick for you.”

“Well, to be fair, they’re essentially service pets. A bittie trained to translate for a deaf person is better off being paired with someone their training can help, than say, someone like me.”

You still didn’t feel right being here. There are people far worse off in the world. Yet both Mia and Frisk acted as if nothing were amiss with this picture. You fiddle with a sleeve, fighting the urge to pick at the skin on the back of your hand. After what feels like forever, Frisk returns, a basket in hand. There are four within it, each a different variety. They are all skeletons...so no fluffy kitties.

“Here we go. These fellows all have widely different personalities and varied skill-sets, but, they each are good with acting as emotional supports and can aid with trauma recovery.” Trauma? The voice in your head laughs in mockery. You don’t know what real trauma is. It was just a car accident. People get into wrecks every day and keep moving on with their lives. You just have to stop being stupid and get over this pitiful fear of cars.

“Your soul is really pretty.”

A bubbly voice brings you back into the now. The smallest skeleton from the basket now sits on the window ledge near you, tiny-booted feet swinging with barely contained energy. His eyelights are wide and bright, giving him an almost childlike presence.

“Uh, thank you…?” You pause, not knowing his name...or if he had a name. This is what happens when you do impulsive things. You’re unprepared.

“Blue!” he replies, filling in the pause before you can fall to far into your own thoughts. He then starts pointing out each of the other bitties, who are perched in varied places around the room. “The tall skeleton in orange is Honey. We work as a team!” Honey waved from where he stood on the floor, looking ready for a nap. “The other tall one is Rus, him and Comic, the one that’s ALREADY ASLEEP, is his partner.” Blue huffs, arms crossing as he stares down the similar looking bittie, who only yawns in reply. They’re all in different colored mini-scrubs, though Comic’s attire looks far too large on his frame, and Blue is wearing gloves that match his.

Rus picks up Comic and clambers onto the seat next to Mia.

“HELLO! NICE TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE, HUMAN.”

Okay, loud. You were never good with loud noises. At least you refrain from flinching. 

“I’ll let you all get to know each other a little better,” Frisk says. “I’ll observe from the other room. These particular Helpers are trained in pairs but I can easily introduce you to some singletons if these guys don't mesh.” They’re gone as quickly as they came, leaving you with four bitties and a giddy best friend.

“Nice to meet you all.”

Hope and resignation flicker together like strobe lights, leaving you dazzled and dazed, and so very uncertain of which way to step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: You make a choice and are given a nickname
> 
> Look out for chapter updates and previews on this fic and my others on my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/)! Feedback is loved. Tell me how I'm doing and if you'd like to see more.


	3. Faded

Ten minutes of small talk lead you to one conclusion. Coming here is an even worse decision than you initially thought, because all it took were those ten short minutes to become hopelessly enamored.

“Can I sit on your shoulder?” asks Blue when Frisk leaves the room. He never abandons that spot, happily chattering with Mia, the other bitties and you. You lose track of time almost too easily, the quartet taking turns informing you about themselves and asking questions of their own. Rus and Blue talk the most. Though it is evident that for all his enthusiasm and surprising professionalism, Rus is less interested in this meeting than his fellow Helper. He doesn't ask to be held nor do you offer. Mia did mention that pet store bitties choose their people, these Helpers likely were little different in that regard.

“Hey Blue?” you venture.

“Yeah?”

“So, both you and Frisk mentioned working in pairs.”

Blue nods, “Honey and I do our best as a team. We have synchronicity, which means our souls are pretty similar, and it helps us be even better Helpers!” Honey is certainly less touchy than his counterpart, seeming to decide that leaning against your shoe was enough.

“Is that common across different types of bitties?” Mia asks, clearly enraptured by the tiny, sleepy skeleton that Rus dumped on her lap.

Comic yawns and answers, “sure. but it's even more common with helpers. lets us feel what the other feels when we're close together and stuff.”

“Do you know why?”

Surprisingly, it is Honey who chimes in, “because we all showed an aptitude for care and healing. shove a bunch of humans or monsters with similar talents, and you'd probably find that most of them can reach common ground.”

“I AM AN EXPERT CHEF!” Rus declares, earning a grin from Comic, “i like to eat.” In an odd way, that little example made the whole thing make sense. 

“Honey is a great listener, he's always sitting and comforting the younger newbies,” Blue says. Much like Comic, Honey follows up on his teammate's declaration, “blue’s a talker. he's generally better at learning what's wrong so i can work my magic.”

There is movement by the window as someone approaches. “Knock-knock!” interrupts Frisk as they open the door.

“who's there?” Comic sits up, more alert than ever.

“Me!” they step inside, a clipboard in hand. 

“me who?”

“Oh no, don't tell me you forgot again?” Rus groans but Comic is entertained, laughing merrily. Once the humor dies down, Frisk looks at you, smiling far too broadly, “I had a feeling a Baby Blue was going to be a good match. Poppy's generally work well with anyone, and since Blue won't go anywhere without Honey…”

You stand, nearly dislodging the bittie on your shoulder, “Look, hey, I haven't made any decisions yet. I wasn't sure I wanted to adopt one much less two. And aren't there home inspections or something? Because I have no bittie supplies. And my apartment is messy. And when I go to work again I’ll barely be home. And I’m forgetful. And I have no idea how much they cost. Does insurance cover some of the adoption fee? There has to be an adoption fee. And—”

The room sways. Your head aches. You’re choking on a hammering heartbeat and shallow breaths. Why were you like this? Why did your body keep betraying you? It was like you had no control over your own emotions anymore and it was terrifying. Humiliating. 

_‘Just get over yourself’_ , the voice in your head sneers.

There is a tiny pop and a weight settles on your opposite shoulder. You jolt, nearly jumping into a wall. 

“hey, breathe with me,” Honey says into your ear. “need ya to breathe and talk to me if you can.” It takes a couple minutes and some repetition, but between Honey and Blue, you find your center again. They ask you to name things you can hear, smell, see and feel—pulling you back slowly, carefully, from the edge of that bottomless ravine that kept threatening to swallow you up since the accident.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” You wipe your face, daring to look at Frisk and Mia, expecting now to be that moment when your best friend tires of your bullshit. Mia tsks and wraps you up in a full-body hug. Utterly rib-crushing. There is another pop and Honey is standing beside Blue, clearly taking it upon himself to avoid your best friend’s enthusiasm before he was swept off his feet by her hair. When you two part, your eyes trail to Frisk, who has placed Comic and Rus in the basket. “Um, yeah. I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

Frisk nods with understanding, “If you’re feeling up to it, I can answer all those questions you have. Obviously there is no pressure to adopt today, but those two are a good match if you do decide to go through with it. A Helper likes helping. And this is the kind of thing they’re trained to do.” She motions to Blue and Honey, “Feel free to take a moment. I’ll be up front when you’re ready.”

Once more, they are gone.

“How do they do that?” you murmur. “They’re just so...calm about everything.” There was no fret or pity from them, nor indifferent clinicalness. If you had to put a word to it, you would call them steadfast. As if nothing and no one could deter them.

“It’s because they have a red soul,” Blue supplies. 

Mia taps her chin, “I think I remember reading an article about soul types a while back. Published by the same guy who created bitties in the first place. Monster souls are white, but humans have colors depending on their most prominent trait. Red stands for Determination, right?”

“Yep. Frisk has a super bright soul and it is redder than any other red I’ve ever seen!” The tiny skeleton says with a wide sweep of his arms. “Souls like that are rare.” 

“blue, it’s kinda rude to talk about people’s souls when they’re not in the room.”

“Whoopsie, right. Sorry.”

Curiosity stirs in your belly, “Can all bitties see souls?”

“nah, blue here is just gifted with soul stuff. though we’re all attuned to them, even more so than monsters, so even if we can’t see them, we can sense and get a read off them. Human souls also happen to be loud. they like shouting for some reason.”

“Ooooh, what color is my soul?” Mia is practically vibrating in place.

“Candy apple green! Your primary trait is kindness but you have a strong sense of justice.” Blue props his hands on his hips, evidently proud of his special gift. “You don't like injustice and will stand up for those weaker than you.”

“That is amazing! Hun, you should go next.”

“We...we need to see Frisk.”

Blue pats the side of your jaw, “It's okay, not everyone feels comfortable with talking about their souls. Monsters are really particular. Likely has to do with how they’re mostly magic and humans are fleshy.” With Mia leading the way, the four of you head to the front. Neither bittie protest leaving the back area and Frisk makes no comment when you enter the lobby.

“So, questions?” they prompt.

Despite your better judgment, you agree to talk. They explained that bitties weren't like other animals, they chose to go home with people based off their intuition, but Mama Cry's Helpers did do probationary periods where they checked in with the Helper to make sure they were safe and content. High risk clients were subject to a home inspection. Insurance became a more muddled subject, and the cost made you wince. You had the cash but your little nest egg was based in long standing insecurity. You were frugal, never feeling secure in your income or status of employment, no matter how long you worked a position. What if you lost your job? You needed to replace your car and that meant monthly payments. Not to mention your rates were going to go up because of the accident. Therapy cost money. Everything in this world does. Could you truly afford this?

The whole time you talk with Frisk, Blue and Honey remain on your shoulders, quiet and relatively still. Blue sat down and swung his feet, but otherwise, neither moved. Like service dogs waiting for the signal to go. Mia keeps to the side out of sight, likely playing on her phone. Giving you space. Surprisingly, Flowey is mute and is venting his frustrations in the Mew Mew notebook next to him. He has a red pen gripped in a thin vine protruding from the soil and occasionally, you hear him stab at the pages like his own scribblings offended him.

“What would you like to do?” asks Frisk as your questions trickle away into thoughtfulness. 

The idea of taking the Helpers home today is temptation at its finest. There are so many upsides that cloud the downs that worry you. At the end of the day, you were lonely. Mia was your best friend but she couldn't always be there. But the money...the risks…

You always took the safer option.

Always.

Even at the cost of your own happiness.

“I would like to apply to adopt Blue and Honey as my Helpers.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. It is impulsive. Risky. Heck, your brain floods with reasons to backtrack the moment those words pass your lips, and you bite down to keep from babbling retractions.

Frisk pulls out a packet of papers, “Let's get you set up then.”

 

Half an hour later, you walk out of Mama Cry’s Helpers with a cardboard box in your arms and a giddy Mia by your side, flipping through the folder Frisk gave you. “On the drive to the pet store you should call your therapist, ask Dr. Davis to mail you and your apartment an official ESA letter. Between that and this form here, your lease should be safe,” she says, before pulling out a page of printed coupons. “Ooooh, fifty percent off clothing. Nice.”

You listen to her chatter all the way to her car, eyes glued to the top of the box. Bitties are so small that it is safer to transport them in carriers since they are less likely to be thrown during a sudden stop (or an accident). And neither Blue nor Honey seemed phased when Frisk placed them into the container. Inside is a towel and the sides are covered in holes large enough to stick a finger through. Apparently they are both familiar with this kind of thing.

Distracted as you are, you idle by the door. 

Mia breaks you lull with a startling hug, “I’m proud of you, hun.”

“I didn’t really do anything…”

“Sush. Lemme be a proud mama.”

“You are barely a year older than me.”

She nuzzles your shoulder before letting you go, “So? Now, how about you check in on those precious little skellies you just adopted before we get rollin’. We’re goin’ shopping!” Her grin becomes manic as she prances off to the other side of the car. 

“We’re on a time limit, so no browsing. In and out. I’m not being an excuse for you to be late to work,” you say, climbing into the passenger seat and gingerly plucking open the top of the box. Honey is curled up in the towel, somehow asleep, his head on Blue’s lap. The smaller bittie waves. “How are you guys doing in there?”

“Fine!” Blue chirps, eyelights blown out huge, like he just learned you hung the stars and the moon. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, what do you want us to call you?”

“Er...whatever you want, I guess.” 

The small skeleton narrowed his sockets at you, pondering, before striking a pose, triumphant in his decision, “Mama Sunshine!” It is common for bitties to nickname their adopters mama regardless of gender. You could get used to that if it was what Blue wants to do. But the other part—

“Sun...shine?”

Blue nods, his smile softer, his gaze fixed on your chest instead of your face, “Your soul is a little faded right now, but it makes me think of summer days.” He shifts, glancing down, “Unless that’s not okay?”

You reach in and run a thumb over his skull. He’s so small, less than six inches tall, you could cup him in your palms. “It’s fine, Blue. I did say you could call me whatever you wanted.” A moment later, you close the box and buckle up. Mia is wriggling in her seat. You pin her with a flat look and an arched brow, “Not a word.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Yeah right,” you drawl.

She feigns hurt, “You wound me.”

“Time limit?”

When Mia starts the car, you cling to the box, feeling lighter than you have in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: You take your new Helpers home
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> This story now has a cover! Check it out [here](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179908261877/hello-sunshine-cover-guess-who-wasnt-busy-at-work). My hand still hurts from drawing all day. Anyway, if you're looking for updates on my stories or are curious about what might come in the future, check out my [tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/). I'm looking for help choosing my next oneshot or long shot, so feel free to leave a note on this [blog post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179877833392/help-me-choose).


	4. Flimsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ Cover Art ]](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/179908261877/hello-sunshine-cover-guess-who-wasnt-busy-at-work)

The trip to the pet store went by in a whirlwind. Blue and Honey listed out everything they needed and every so often, motioned at something they wanted. Scrubs are nice and all, but by the end of your mad dash, each of the bitties had a week of outfits. Blue favored items colored like his namesake, going utterly gaga over a bright-cyan neckerchief. Honey was less particular, though you noted that everything he chose was long and covering, like sweaters, and he picked up a rather fetching brown-and-rust striped scarf. 

You winced at the cost of the bittie houses, but Honey assured you that as long as you could provide him with a large plastic bin and a few other supplies, he could create a suitable ‘home’. As you tried to figure out how the bittie would even make such a thing, the eager gleam to his eyelights calmed your worries. Honey wasn’t as forthcoming as Blue, but he had his passions. 

“If that’s what you want to do, I can dig up a bin out of my closet. Heck, you can rummage through my whole art tub.” The resulting pang in your chest went ignored.

In all, the trip only took twenty minutes, five of which were spent peeling Mia away from an especially excitable puppy that reminded her of her grandfather’s dog. You could see it...assuming that the pup grew a foot taller and gained fifty pounds. Armed with the essentials loaded up in your cart, you hurry through the check out and power walk to Mia’s car.

Once more you are aware of your rushing heartbeat.

This is crazy.

Spending all this money, taking in two bitties: just insane. You didn’t want to look at your bank account. But when you place Blue and Honey into their travel box, those worries and fears feel flimsy. This could possibly be one of the best choices you made in your life. Your brain might supply a million reasons why you will regret it, but for now, the chance of setting everything right is enough to keep you moving forward.

 

“Get to work, I can feed myself. You’ve done enough today. Honestly.” You are shaky from the car trip, legs like jelly and whole body aching from tensing up all day. Despite this, you’re certain you can cart up all the supplies to your second floor apartment yourself. Mia is already pushing it for time. She needs to get back to her own place and change. Her frown is one of concern, but she nods. You smile and release your bitties from their container so you can tuck the box into a sack for easier carrying. “And Minnie, thanks.” Tears prickle in her eyes and she chucks a crumpled paper bag at your head. You catch it with a free hand.

“I know I’m the best. So show your appreciation by eating that. Don’t do what you did with the brownie.”

“You mean leave it in the fridge for longer than a day so you are tempted to eat it when you inevitably invade my apartment and make me question why I gave you a spare key?”

Mia winks, “Exactly. I don’t know HOW you resist pure chocolaty goodness. It’s a sin.” She waves at the bitties, “Be good you two. Take care of my bestie.” And soon, she was off, blazing out of the parking lot like a madwoman. The rev of the engine and screech of tires make a shudder gnaw through your body, little teeth nibbling at muscle and bone. It takes a moment to collect yourself before you stuff the almost-forgotten cake pop away and climb the stairs.

 

“so this is your place, sunny?”

Flipping on the lights, you reveal your living room. There are shoes missing their partners scattered in odd places, an overflowing laundry basket sitting in the middle of the floor and empty glasses hanging out on various flat surfaces. But it wasn’t the minor messes that really made you nervous about showing it to your new Helpers. It is its impersonal starkness. There are three pieces of furniture in the living room. The couch is an old, green futon an uncle didn’t have room for anymore, across from it is a TV your dad insisted on buying when he realized you didn’t have one a year ago, and acting as a side table of sorts is a dinner tray Mia gave you back in college as a gag gift. There aren’t any shelves or rugs or pictures. Not even a sad, malnourished plant in a corner. Even you sometimes looked at the impersonal white walls and off-colored carpet and wondered if maybe you left out the clutter to make this place seem less like a prison of your making.

“Ah, yep. Not much to see, I’m afraid. I’ll give you guys the grand tour.” Neither Blue nor Honey comment as you meander into the bland kitchen and place the bags onto the counter. Pocket change, empty plastic tupperware and cooking spices dot the faux granite. “So this is the kitchen. Not much in the fridge at the moment but I tend to go shopping once a week. Figure there’s enough to get us through today, so tomorrow you will have to tell me what you guys like so we can pick stuff up. When I work I tend to meal prep. Well, if sandwiches count as meal prepping. Eat lots of those.” 

You shuffle around to your bedroom, which is empty save for a singleton bed, a set of plastic drawers acting as a dresser and a laptop. None of the plastic drawers are shut, bits of clothing peeking out, and the sheets on your bed are mounded in a crumpled heap, pillows tossed on top. Adjacent is the bathroom, complete with dollar store shower curtains in half-transparent white and mismatched towels in a variety of obnoxious colors. You’re pretty sure the tumbling ball of dark fluff skittering across the tile is Mia’s hair. That girl shed like no one’s business and you always knew when she visited because of the curly ‘tumbleweeds’ she left behind.

“So uh, that’s it. Home sweet home. If you give me half an hour I’ll have a space set up for y’all to call your own. I’ll even drag out that art supply box so Honey can work on a little mini home set up.” You gently pick up both of the skeletons and place them on the floor by your laptop. “Would you like my phone to play with while you wait or…?” 

“I wanna help!” cheers Blue.

“hm. i’m curious what kind of supplies ya have to work with.”

“Quite a few, actually,” you admit, wandering to the closet and opening it. There is a number of bins shoved in here, but the one you are after is on the top shelf. A little maneuvering (and maybe a little climbing onto the other bins) later and the dark blue plastic bin is in your arms. Just as heavy as you remember. Popping it open, you reveal years of art supplies dumped into glorious, colorful chaos. Sketchbooks, markers, pencils, scrap paper, hot glue sticks, a chunk of balsa wood, and even some spray paint. “Hm. I think I have some flattened cardboard boxes from when I moved. One moment.” 

Soon you and the Helpers are sitting in the middle of your bedroom, surrounded by art supplies and cardboard. You notice Honey flipping through the sketchbooks but you don’t say a word. Those are old memories. The fact that you have this box is just you not being able to let go of childish fantasies. It’s been almost two years since you’ve touched any of this stuff.

“Have everything you need, Honey?”

“uh-hum. you two go on.”

The way his browbones lower with concentration as he picks up a piece of broken charcoal and starts scribbling tells you that he is already lost in his work. Amazing little creatures. “Guess that’s our cue, Blue.”

He charges off into the living room, his enthusiasm filling you with something hard to explain. You follow, absently picking at a sleeve, uncertain how to proceed. If they were cats you'd know more about how to help them adjust to their surroundings and spend the next few hours trying to coax cuddles from your new furry friend. But Blue seems perfectly happy to take the lead, scurrying into the kitchen. With a little help reaching the counter, he starts rummaging through the bags, proving immensely stronger than you first assumed. As the logistics of it all make your head hurt, a faint blue glow catches your eye. Magic. 

“Yes! The Magnificent Blue is victorious,” the bittie announces, evidently proud of the fact that he held the cardboard transport box over his head. 

“That's amazing,” you murmur.

Blue grins at you, his skeleton smile widening in a manner that was wholly impossible for a non-magical being. “I have this handled, Mama Sunshine.” The ease in your chest turns heavy. They were Helpers. Obviously trained to handle certain household tasks for people who couldn't themselves. Yet oddly, their independence ached, burned in your brain. Wouldn't they become resentful? You could help. You should help. 

Sensing your distress, Blue drops the box and lays his gloved hands on your wrist, eyelights soft, “What are you feeling right now?”

“Can't you tell?” you squeak out.

“It's better if you tell me.”

There is a pause. You're tempted to sputter out the normal lie. The reflex. You're fine. Always fine. Except you're not. Nobody likes hearing that. Except Mia. But Mia isn't here. Blue is. Blue who can sense your emotions and see your soul. “Can I have a moment before I answer?” The little skeleton nods, hugging your wrist before bouncing back to continue unpacking. He hums and you feel the dance of his eyelights lingering on your back.

You open the fridge and place the paper bag with the cake pop inside. A cheese sandwich and apple juice would make a good lunch. So you pull out a pan and start heating it. Cooking isn’t your favorite thing, but it passed the time and offered a much needed distraction. By the time you plate two sandwiches, each cut in half, Blue has the entire contents of the shopping trip organized on the counter and is messily attempting to tie the neckerchief with little success. It's outlandishly oversized.

“Here. Let me,” you murmur, gingerly unknotting Blue's handiwork before tying it correctly. It isn't perfect but the end result is charming. Almost like a bow.

“Thank you! It's fantastic. I'm going to wear it every day.” He practically bounces off the counter in his excitement. As he continues to laugh and babble in joy, you eye the sky blue scrubs and wonder if the color was the only form of self expression the bitties were able to have back at Mama Cry’s Helpers. A uniform they couldn't put aside while waiting for adoption.

“You're welcome...so, uh, do you like cheese sandwiches?”

“I don't know!” Blue says, still cheery. Then again, cheer seemed to be his default. “I'm not picky but Honey can be fussy about not sweet foods. It's how he got his name. When he was a babybones, the only way anyone could get him to eat was by smothering it in honey.” He pulls a face, “So unhealthy. He's grown out of that though.”

At least Frisk's how-to guide explained that bitties were capable of eating both human and monster food, and as long as their diet was supplemented with some magic, they could stay healthy on the same diet as their human companion. Assuming you didn't subsist entirely on soda, ramen noodles and cookies.

“I'll go get him and we can have lunch,” you say, before wandering back to your bedroom. Your eyes go wider than dinner plates. Honey, in the thrall of his crafting, was levitating a number of objects around him and held a sharpened bone in one hand. He rotated the plastic bin with a flick of his wrist and…

“hey.” The magic show ended as the items were set back on the floor. “do i smell food?”

“Yeah?”

“awesome. i could use a break.” He made a grand affair of yawning, “gimmie a lift, sunny?” Well aware Honey could do his odd little disappearing trick, you indulge his request. He is warm in your palms.

“You just want to be carried,” you tease.

Honey offers a sleepy grin, “yep. ya caught me.”

By the end of lunch you learn that Blue wasn't lying about how Honey earned his name...and need to add a certain condiment to your shopping list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: You get a phone call


	5. Fingernails

The next couple hours pass like a daydream. Between you and your two Helpers, the apartment subtly transforms into a bittie appropriate home. Blue takes the lead, leading you around each room in a dizzying display of energy. Honey comments now and then, absorbed in his project. Eventually you all end up sitting in the middle of your bedroom, piecing together one thing or another. Your trusty glue gun, a series of popsicle sticks, some string and other scrap odds and ends later turn into ladders and makeshift furniture. The little chairs and table set you fashion are lopsided affairs but Blue chatters in his bubbly manner as he paints them with what could be salvaged of your ancient, gloopifying acrylics. 

Numb fingertips caked with glue and pinked from burns fumble with needle and thread as dinner time approached. Poor tablecloth. Looks like Mia's sewing lessons did not stick at all. 

“think i made good progress so far,” Honey remarks as you once more prick yourself. You glance up to see that the hefty blue bin you gave him looks quite different. There are numerous holes carved into the sides, resembling doors and windows, and one even had a covering flap on makeshift hinges. Curious, you lift the tote lid to peer inside. Cardboard covered in sheets of white paper make for simple divider walls. “with a 'nother bin it'd be easy to add a second floor if we need more space. think blue would like to paint the walls, but uh, cardboard needs a lil help being permanent. newspaper and some paste to make plaster would go a long way. lighter and easier to work with than wood anyway.”

“This is amazing, Honey. Um, can I ask why you guys might need more room in here? I mean, you can go anywhere in the apartment you want…” You figured it was a privacy thing for sleeping and such. There was a reason stores sold bittie houses.

“blue an’ me prolly won't need more space for ourselves. heh, good luck gettin’ him to sleep in here at all. keepin’ expansion in mind if you adopt another bittie and he's shy. some are skittish ‘bout open spaces an’ practically live in their houses until they feel safe.”

Your eyes widen, “More? You're building a house for other bitties instead of yourself?” Was that practical, selfless or assuming? Honey nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. A disbelieving chuckle escapes you. Two was enough. At least he actively seemed to enjoy building.

“whelp, i believe it’s dinner time,” Honey announces, standing and stretching. Bones pop like fizzy candy in soda. A glance at your phone confirms it. You weren’t especially hungry, and if it weren’t for them speaking up, you’d have likely forgotten to eat at all. Mia’s meal-based hovering wasn’t without merit. The pair of skeletons allow you to carry them into the kitchen (where Blue double checks his new ladders to make sure they were secured properly). All seems to be set for a calm, peaceful evening with your bitties when a certain ringtone blares, cutting through the quiet like a gunshot.

Tentatively, you swipe the answer icon and lift the smartphone to your ear. 

“Heyo daddio,” you greet as cheerily as possible, a strained smile plastering itself on your face unconsciously. “Didn’t expect a call from you tonight.”

Your father’s voice is deep and familiar, tinged with an ever present humor, “Hey. Do I need an excuse to talk to my offspring?”

Yes.

“Suppose not. So what’s up?”

“Wanted to know if you were coming over for lunch Sunday like usual.”

You fiddle with your sleeve, “Well, I don’t currently have a car so—”

“You’re looking for a new one, aren’t you?” You flinch at your mother’s interruption. Great. You were on speaker phone. “You should have a new car by Sunday. Doesn’t take that long to sort out and you have money. Always faster when you can pay in cash.” Sure you had some stowed away but not a whole car’s worth! You swallow and curl your fingers around the wrist holding the phone. The pinch of nails digging into the flesh of your wrist is a passing observation. “Maybe this time you’ll get a new one. The last car was falling apart anyway. I have no idea why you didn’t trade it in the moment you got a real job.”

Because it was your mother’s car. Because she gave it to you in a fit of spite. Because she proceeded to not talk to you for a solid two weeks after she signed over the ownership, and then threw your apology in your face when you broke the silence strung out like sugar glass. Because you had so many regrets revolving around that stupid car...and so many stupid hopes. Because maybe if you could fix it up, keep it running, you could preserve a little piece of the mother you remembered...that you admired. 

She said you could have it when you earned your license. 

That day came and like so many empty promises you left ignored, she made excuses. At the time you didn’t have the means to pay for a car and were gearing up for college. It was the first time you ever argued with your mother. As in, raised your voice and practically begged to know what you were supposed to do. You felt selfish. Were selfish. But she talked about giving you the car for years. It was old but ran well, and your mother rarely drove anymore now that she could carpool with her husband to work. She’d seemed excited about you getting your license and into the world...until it happened.

“She’s just scared,” your father explained.

It rang hollow coming from him instead of your mother.

“Hello? Hell-oooo? You still there?” You inhale sharply, fingernails embedding deep into your wrist, cutting neat little crescent moons into flesh.

“Yeah. I’m still here. Sorry, zoned out there for a bit.”

“So, what kind of car are you getting?” There was an edge to your mother’s bubbly enthusiasm. “Maybe a little convertible? I always wanted one of those.”

“Ah, I honestly don’t know. I...uh, haven’t even thought about it. I live within walking distance of the train station and that’s how I get to work anyway, and one of the stops is by the grocery store. I can spend a little time, you know, looking.” Silence. You uncurl your fingers, free hand roaming to your neck, itching a scratch that laid deeper than skin. An itch your nails would never soothe no matter how hard you try. “I mean, I can still see you guys for lunch, but um, dad would have to pick me up or I’d have to use one of those ride sharing apps.

“Or you could get a new car,” her tone is flippant. Dismissive. “What were you doing all day if you weren’t car hunting?”

Your eyes trail to Honey and Blue. They’re staring. Watchful. Your breath hitches, and you struggle to keep your voice level, “I...I went to see a doctor.”

“Doctor?” Your dad asks. “Did an injury creep up on you from the accident?”

“Ah, not...that kind of...doctor. A therapist. He’s helping me with—”

“Why do you need a therapist? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re fine,” your mother states, cutting you off. “The accident was days ago. Just get behind the wheel again and drive. No point in crying about it.” Your mouth opens and shuts. Right. She’s right. She’s always right. Even when she isn’t right. Your whole body starts to shake. No words escape. “Psychiatrists are a joke, anyway, they’ll tell you to solve all your problems with medication. All pills do is make you fat...don’t tell me you’re on some stupid anxiety medication.”

“N-no. I’m not.”

“Good.”

“...Ah, well, the doctor recommended something else. An emotional support—”

“Really? You bought into that—”

“Sweetie, let the kiddo finish talking.”

You draw in a deep breath, “I adopted a pair of bitties. They’re little skeletons named Blue and Honey.”

A lengthy silence ensued before your mother speaks up again, “You get an emotional support pet and instead of something cute and cuddly like a cat, you get skeletons? Ew. And aren’t they expensive? With that money you could have made a month’s payment on a new car. I can’t believe you let yourself get scammed like this.” She continues to talk, but you can barely keep it together. 

“Hey, I...I’ve got to go. Talk to you guys later. See you Sunday, maybe. Bye.”

You hang up.

Before Blue or Honey can react, you flee to the bathroom, locking it shut behind you. Your stomach roils. Your body aches. And you spend half an hour curled up around the toilet. The thought of dinner is repulsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The aftermath


	6. Food

“Not hungry, Blue.”

You add magic supplements to the canned soup, stirring absently as the odd pellets dissolved, giving the broth a hard to notice shimmer. After picking yourself off the bathroom floor, you set about making dinner for the bitties. They needed food. Even with legs that felt like rotting tree limbs and arms of leaden pool noodles, you could microwave soup. Like always, you manage. Despite the shaking and the hazy vision. Despite the shallowness of each breath. Despite wanting nothing more than to just lay on the cool tiles and sleep away the aches...You put one foot in front of the other. 

It was routine. Even before the accident you had days like these. Weeks. Months. Where you simply kept walking. Moving. Breathing. A zombie ambling through a daydream, the barren wastes stretching onward, no reprieve of lost civilization in sight. You named it fatigue, exhaustion, a bad night’s sleep. Other labels had no place in your brain. However, now, it engulfs you in a manner that suffocates, drips the color and flavor from your surroundings until all that remains is a persistent itch and a bitterness that tastes almost of blood.

You’re so heavy.

Drooping.

Shouldn’t you be stronger than this?

“Doesn’t matter, you should eat,” Blue insists, climbing onto the hand resting on the counter. You keep stirring. Broth and noodles swirl, the surface clouding with frothy, fatty bubbles. “Mama Sunshine. Mama. Look at me.” You comply. His eyelights are small, little laser points in the dark. Gloved digits smooth over reddened indentions in skin before he tugs at the cuff of your sleeve, revealing the pinked mess of skin beneath. You fight the urge to scratch, to soothe that niggling itch, and keep stirring. “Do...do you do this often?”

“I forget to eat some days, not a big deal.” Absently, you bring the spoon to your lips to check the temperature of the broth. Even the excessive salt of commercial canned chicken noodle is bland and flavorless right now. “If I’m hungry, I eat. M’not hungry.” Hard to be when the thought roils in your gut. You’ll eat tomorrow. It wasn’t like skipping meals is anything new. Breakfast was a nonexistent delusion all through middle and high school, and a moment of forgetfulness meant no money for lunch some days. As a small kid you preferred going hungry over eating food you didn’t like, and as an adult, sleep occasionally took priority over dinner. It is your normal. 

“he’s askin’ ‘bout what you did to your arms, sunny,” says Honey, popping into existence by the empty can laying next to the sink.

“It’s nothing,” you reply. “Just itched a little too much. Long sleeves in summer, drys out my skin.” Blue prods tender flesh. It stings.

“Your skin is so hot!” Blue pulls off a glove to lay a bare palm over a crescent. “Honey, can you heal this?”

“There’s nothing to heal, Blue.” You turn off the stove, dislodge the bittie from your hand and pull down your sleeve. “Soup’s done. Whatever y’all don’t eat, I’ll put in a container to warm up later.”

“sunny?”

It’s best to keep busy. Pouring the hot soup into a bowl, laying out little dishes and spoons—it keeps your body engaged. “You want to eat here or in the bedroom? The table and chairs we made aren’t quite done drying, but the lid from the bin should keep any spills from getting on the carpet.”

“SUNSHINE!” You startle at the volume of Blue’s voice. He props his hands on his hips, face tinted a faint blue, back straight. As if sensing your racing heart, Blue calms, eyelights becoming wide and soft. “Let us help.” Denial rests upon the tip of your tongue but you swallow it, eyes damp, throat tight. One small step away from falling apart again. How many times would you break in one day? It’s like you had no control over yourself anymore. “How about we eat here. Honey—?”

“on it.” The taller bittie manhandles a nearby roll of paper towels and soon a makeshift ‘picnic blanket’ laid on the faux granite, swift to lay out the tiny eating ware you laid down. He ladles out soup as Blue holds up his arms, silently demanding to be picked up. It is an order you absently obey.

You bring him over to the little eating area Honey set up and he maintains a hand on your finger even as he sits down across from his Helper partner. “We’re here to help. We’ll listen to anything you need to say. We’ll be there with you no matter what, understand?”

Because that is their job. Because you bought them. Because they had no choice. 

“what’s your favorite color, sunny?” What? Your spiralling train of thought stutters. After a moment, you answer, your brow furrowed. The bittie nods, spooning a bite between his teeth, “favorite food?” Suddenly you’re in the middle of a mindless 20 questions game. Weariness settles in as the pair finish eating and the cold soup transferred to a resealable container. 

“Hey Blue, Honey.”

They look up at you, “Do...do you actually want to be here...with me?” Your voice is quiet, words damp as they unstick from your tongue.

“Of course! I’m surprised you didn’t have a bittie before us to be honest.” 

The way he looks at your collarbone makes you quirk a brow, “That a soul thing again?”

“yep.”

“It’s hard to explain, but it’s...it feels nice to look at. Warm. Our kind are drawn to that sort of thing. Like, um, a fireplace? Or a beach! Even if it’s not yours or you aren’t meant to stay, it’s still nice to be around.” Huh. Well then. Perhaps that explained Honey making a house he and Blue might never use. Your soul was apparently the equivalent of a heating blanket to a cat for bitties. Probably meant that if you’d gone into the bittie section of a pet store, they’d cluster around you or something. Like certain people just being a magnet for dogs, even cantankerous elders letting them pat their head. Weird, but okay. Did that relate back to the sunshine nickname? 

You drum your nails against the plastic container before tucking it into the fridge, “You...you guys will tell me if you don’t want to be here anymore, right?” The thought of them dialing Frisk late at night to be whisked away was yet another unpleasant image to join the multitude stacking up all day. “You won’t just...just leave…?” You are painfully used to people leaving you behind. Deciding that somehow, you weren’t enough. It made you independent (but could it be called that when the last thing you wanted was to be alone?) Mia would likely happily become your roommate but...the last time you lived with someone your mother never failed to take an opportunity to jab at you. To remind you that you weren’t a real adult until you lived by yourself. Then again, it probably didn’t help that the person you stayed with was a family friend instead of a significant other. Because dating is an important part of a young adult’s life. It meant throwing off those last vestiges of childhood and starting a family of your own.

Did you even want kids?

Did you want to invite someone into your life right now?

You were a mess and a half just trying to get through one day with Helpers, and they were proving mostly self-sufficient. 

Honey drags you out of your thoughts by teleporting onto your shoulder, “we’re not goin’ anywhere. as long as you need us, you’ve got us on your side.”

The fridge door whispers shut.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Day one FINALLY comes to an end and actual plot of this story can start.
> 
> How's my pacing going? Does it feel like it's dragging or is this shorter chapter style working out? Comments and kudos are love! Thank you all for reading.
> 
> If you want to see some more bittie bones art by me, check out this [tumblr post](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/180358223847/on-the-streets-boss-and-cherry-3-ver-this%22).


	7. Foggy

Lukewarm water pours down your neck and shoulders, skimming down the slope of your back and puddling at your feet. The drain gurgles. Days like these made you wish your hot water heater didn’t suck, because you want to stand in spray until your foggy thoughts disperse into numbness along with the aches in your body. Your gaze strays to swollen skin, the scratches and rivets still vivid. You hope Blue and Honey don’t question your wearing long pants and sleeves to bed. Your upper legs and stomach are much in the same shape as your arms. Resting your forehead against the damp tile wall, you switch the temperature to cold. Goosepimples rise in response. You stand and shiver until your discomfort is all that comes to mind.

At last you switch the water off and step out, ignoring the cloudy mirror to sit on the toilet lid and dry yourself off. Routine. Mindless. Easy.

When you emerge from the bathroom, hair still wet, clad in comfy sweats, the Helpers peek up from the shoebox overstuffed with a fuzzy blanket they are sitting in. Blue scrambles out as you flop on the edge of your bed, quick to scale the sheets to sit beside you. He is an athletic little thing despite his lack of muscles. “Mama Sunshine?” Blue tugs at your sleeve. Your response is an unintelligible noise he takes as acknowledgement. “Can...can we sleep with you?”

Right. You remember from the pamphlet that many bitties are co sleepers. They gladly nap on cushions or in beds, but when their person slept, if they are not of the nocturnal variety, it is common for them to cozy up to pulse points or over the heart—er, soul—like kittens. “Aint’cha worried I may squish you?” Heavy eyelids flutter. Sleep feels far away yet so close, restlessness waring with need to be comatose for twelve hours. There are no words, really, to describe the utter mess that phone call left you. All the progress you thought you were making, the worries and doubts you were starting to lay aside...only for the rug to be yanked up, rubbed in your face for daring to step on it and them used to smother you. 

“Mweh he he! Do not fear, we are much sturdier than we look.”

“we can also poke you with a pointy stick if you roll over on us,” Honey supplied, no longer in the shoebox, but standing on your sternum instead.

“That’s mean, Honey.”

The taller skeleton shrugged, snuggling his chin into the scarf he now had wrapped around his neck. He was wearing that to bed? Actually....you pause to look at the pair. While you were showering, they changed out of their scrubs into the tiny pajamas they picked out. Blue’s are covered in cartoon stars, the fabric a sky blue shade far lighter than his neckerchief, and Honey has a mismatched pair with the bottom being bright yellow and dotted with buzzing bees, and the top being dark brown with a clipart style bear face stitched on the front. And while Blue removed his neckerchief for bed, Honey actually put on the scarf he admired in the shop, looping it three times around his shoulders so that it nearly covered half his face when he slouched. 

You mindfully haul yourself to lay properly on top of the blankets, head propped up on an overloved pillow, “Go for it.” Should you roll around too much, they had plenty of soft places to nest down in around the house, from the shoebox to the couch in the living room. The three of you find a cozy position, one where you are buried underneath the mound of bedding as per usual, and the Helpers are tucked close to your chest. 

Once more heavy eyelids slip shut.

Exhaustion dragging you under its spell.

 

Your heart’s racing. Faster, faster. No breath in your lungs or words inching past your lips. Why are you so nervous? Sweaty palms clench around the rubber steering wheel, the glare of afternoon light making you blink away spots. There’s music but the lyrics are lost...or maybe you just don’t know them. Mia laughs to your right, texting, her curly hair engulfing her face, hiding her eyes. Did you speak? She looks at you, features shadowed save for her lips, which move with words you think you hear but somehow forget in an instant. She twists the volume on the radio and rolls down the window, enjoying the cool breeze in place of AC. Your car takes forever to cool off. Fixing it never really came to mind. The heat didn’t bother you so much.

Ahead the road is a vast, empty stretch of endless black, punctuated by yellow dashes and faded white lines. On all sides concrete barriers stretch high, graffitied fortress walls dividing the highway from the chasm below. If there is a sky it is beige instead of blue. 

It’s fine. All is fine. You’re driving forward, not another car in sight. On and on and on. No reason to be fearful. You are going the speed limit, under it even. Mia’s parent’s place is about three hours away and you’ve been on the road an hour. 

Suddenly, the wheel is out of your hands. You lurch to grab it again but it keeps rolling away. Away. Away. The vehicle jerks sharply. Grey and beige and black and yellow and white...it shivers and blends. Spinning. You’re spinning, the center of a wild, uncontrolled pivot. The scent of oil and rubber and smoke fills the senses. 

“I’m going to die.” 

It is a stark, undeniable realization. The only sound is the shriek of tires and the pulse of your heartbeat, and you’re drowning. This is your fault. All your fault. You reach for the wheel again but it’s gone, missing, you’re helpless, pulled into a weightless tumble as the walls close in ever tighter. There is no more sky. No more road. Just walls and motion and then—

—then you stop.

It’s sudden and surprising and the airbag is deflated in your lap. Why is there so much blood? You look at your hands. They're stripped of skin and flesh until all that is left is bone. You look to Mia but she’s gone, and you’re standing in the stark white of a hospital, the reek of rubber still clinging to your nose. The doctors are as unbothered as you by the exposed bones. 

“She’s gone, it’s my fault.”

And then you’re falling, tipping backwards into the front seat of the car, once more in the dizzying spin. You claw desperately at the wheel that is somehow in your hands and yank it sharply in the opposite direction from the wall you’re careening towards. You swerve, unable to regain control. You have to save Mia. The blare of a car horn harmonizes with the shriek of tires and like a broken rubber band, the world snaps and flies. 

Upon impact, your racing heart rips you free.

 

Jackknifing up in bed, you gasp down shallow, frantic breaths. You’re suffocating. Not enough air. Why can’t you get enough air. Sleep numb limbs flounder against tangled sheets, hands probing every surface they can find. Your cheeks, your hair, your stomach, the bed, the wall…

Water. You need water. 

THUMP!

Hitting the floor is akin to falling into an icy pool. You freeze, blinking in the darkness and clutch at your throat as if you can soothe your pulse that way.

“shine...Mama Sunshine!” You flinch, shivering unconsciously as remember your new roommates. There is a pop and Honey appears on your leg, clutching Blue to his chest. “Put me down.” The taller Helper nods and places his partner on your knee, where he stares up at you with wide, serious eyelights. “Can you hear me?” You blink, watching him, breaths short and shuddering. He repeats the question and you nod. “Give me your hand.” It could have been minutes or hours, but slowly, you lift a clammy palm and lay it limp on your leg. Both bitties place their phalanges on your fingers. “What are you feeling?”

Tears surge up into your eyes, guilt and shame crashing down hard and fast an inescapable, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

It takes nearly half an hour for them to calm you down. Pathetic. Pathetic. PATHETIC! You don’t dare look at the time. You can barely look at them. Holding it together shouldn’t be this hard. It was just a car accident. Nobody died. Nobody was severely hurt. Yet here you are wallowing. Pull it together. You have to—need to—pull yourself together.

“Mama, you’re bleeding.” In the midst of your panic, your hands made their way to your mouth and apparently, you chewed at the edges of your nails until you broke skin. You allow Blue and Honey to cradle the wounded digits, watching absently as the pair share a look, before closing their sockets. Warmth tingles its way through your body, racing through the veins in your arm until it reached your heart, each fluttering beat pushing the sensation through your system. Healing magic. Is it your toothpaste or did it leave the taste of mint on your tongue?

As they retreat, the warmth pools in your chest.

You feel...different.

The relief is blatant on Blue’s face, and once more, he is fixated where your soul must be.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep now?” he asks. 

“Y-yeah, lemme get a glass of water first.”

The rest of the night you chase the shallow promise of rest, never quite dipping back into the abyssal depths that held promise of reprieve at the cost of dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: A new day


	8. Fine

Sunlight bleeds through the blinds, announcing noon’s steady approach. It is not unusual for you to stir at this hour on your days off, but generally, you rouse alone and rested. Today is different. Your head pounds with the creeping ache of a potential migraine, a remnant of yesterday’s stress and last night’s near sleeplessness. Hunger should pull at your gut but the thought of eating twists uncomfortably—perhaps lunch will tempt you in an hour or two. All-in-all, you feel heavy, and consider the idea of just closing your eyes and drifting off again in hopes you could function like a human being later. But today was not like any other morning. It was the first one you woke with a tiny skeleton curled on your chest, his breathing in synch with your own.

“Hm. Mornin’ Honey,” you rasp, stroking the top of his skull with one finger. He shifts and stretches like a contented cat, sprawling out languidly along your sternum.

He waves a hand but doesn’t make to sit up, “yo. what time is it?”

You’re not quite sure. A little fumbling later and your cell phone is in hand, 11:35 staring you in the face like an accusation. “Time to get up unfortunately. Gotta get groceries and pick up anything else you guys might need. Should probably call Mia...if she’s not at work already...Laundry is a must. I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow and clean clothes are important for that. Oh, shoot, I need to text my manager and ask if it’s okay to bring you guys with me to the office...wait...Honey, where’s Blue?” You sit up a little more quickly than the bittie expects and he goes tumbling onto your lap. He doesn’t seem to mind since he simply yawns and adjusts himself to be more comfortable on the blankets pooled over your thighs. 

“hm. if i have to guess? the kitchen. he’s been awake since dawn.”

“Dawn!?”

Honey curls up in your hands as you scoop him up and stand, “don’t worry ‘bout it. he barely sleeps and has a ton of excess energy he needs to burn off by being productive. back at the center, he’d run laps around the playroom with the other energetic helpers every morning. last night was honestly the longest he's slept since he was a babybones.”

Unconvinced of Blue’s well-being, you scuttle into the kitchen, half-tripping about in your too-long-in-the-leg sweatpants. Standing on the edge of the sink is the tiny bittie, face screwed with concentration as he levitates a pot out of sudsy water and beneath the running faucet. He rinsed the bubbles off and laid it down on a towel roll atop the counter, before flicking the water off. Sweat beaded down the back of his skull in tiny, cyan drops, and he breathed in heavily, as if greatly strained, but after a moment, he nodded to himself and proceeded to bounce over to the pot, dragging a cloth over to wipe it dry. He must have been at it a while, because there are a couple cups and a handful of silverware laid out in a similar fashion.

“Blue?”

The helper pauses, starry eyelights bright as he glances to where you stand, “Mama Sunshine! Good morning, well, good nearly noon to be more accurate. Did you get enough sleep?”

“Y-yeah. Blue, why are you cleaning dishes?”

He props his hands on his hips like the world’s most adorable superhero, “Because a clean home is a happy home!”

“‘cause he’s a total neat freak.”

“Am not!” Blue huffs. “Just because I enjoy tidying up doesn’t mean I’m a neat freak. Messes don’t bother me—but putting everything in its place is truly rewarding. You should try it sometime, Honey.”

“nah. i’ll leave the happy homemaking to you.”

“Lazybones,” Blue returns to wiping down the pot, climbing inside it, obviously more amused than upset. Was this particular banter normal for them? “I bet a certain someone would be willing to help me put away the dishes, yeah?” As if on cue, your feet move and the smattering of glasses and utensils are tucked away where they belong. When you finish, Blue deems the pot dry and scampers to the sink again to drain it. “I noticed there were eggs in the fridge. Those will make a fine brunch to start our day!”

It occurs to you that neither bittie makes mention of last night nor do they act as if you are a fragile flower. There is no sidestepping or smothering concern. Simply normalcy, albeit Blue was pushier than before. You didn’t mind. It was hard enough to think straight. Thus no protest comes from you as eggs are cooked and served, the helpers enjoying theirs, ironically enough, sunny side up. 

A little after twelve, the dishes are cleaned up and put away, and everyone in the apartment is dressed. The sleeves of your hoodie fall a little past your hands. Cozy. Secure. Honey shares your logic and dons a burnt orange pullover. He must not overheat like humans do because he pairs it with the scarf and brown winter style boots. Blue is far more practical for the hot weather in his light t-shirt, cargo shorts and cyan rubber rain boots. You help him tie on his neckerchief again. 

“Whelp, grocery time,” you announce, picking them up and settling them on your shoulders. “You guys should be fine sitting on my lap on the train. Unless you think you need the travel box?” Both shake their heads and then you were off. The station was a short walk away and the day was clear. A quick check of the time schedule on your phone confirms that you won’t be waiting too long for the next train to arrive once you get to the stop. You bite the inside of your cheek before dialing a familiar number.

“About time you called me.”

A smile quirks on your lips at that oh-so-dear sass, “Hello to you too, Mia.”

“Psh. Hello is overrated.” She chuckles before adding in a sly voice, “Sooooo, how are the precious skellies, Mama Sunshine?”

You rub your face with the back of one hand, “Call me that again and I’ll call you Maria for the rest of forever.”

“Tch, playing dirty pool.”

“Always.”

“Darling, sweetheart, love of my life, precious sunny gumdrops...”

“Maria Hernandez—”

“Uhg, fiiiiine. Now spill, how are cute bittie babies?”

You adjust the phone by your ear and check the street before crossing. This part of town was almost always busy, and city drivers weren’t always the best about stopping at red lights like they were supposed to. Twice already this year you had to play dodge’em with an idiot who was not paying attention. That nifty little walking sign meant you had the right of way. Some days, though, you wish you were a little bolder and were willing to smack the hood of cars that almost ran you over like your supervisor at work. You might be taller than him but boy did his growing up ‘on the wrong side of town’ make him one hundred percent awe inspiring at times.

“Hun?”

“Oh, sorry, was crossing the street,” you reply. A truck whizzed by, going faster than the speed limit, ruffling your clothes and hair. Normally it wouldn’t bother you, but this time, you wince, shuffling to the side of the sidewalk further from the street. “They’re doing great. We spent last night building stuff. Honey made use of that art bin of mine, and Blue helped me make breakfast this morning.”

“That’s good! You?”

“M’fine. Gotta do adult things so I’m ready to return to work tomorrow.”

Mia makes a considering noise, “Now, big question.”

“Hm?”

“Did you eat the damn cake pop?”

“Um…” You shuffle up to the the train stop, mentally taking note of the mismatched people gathered there. As an inner city stop, there aren’t any parking spaces in sight, but between the various shops and skyscrapers, all types await transport. With the lunch hour high, people in suits mill about with single mothers and their children. Some are walking to nearby restaurants and others are stop hopping to get closer to their destination. A homeless man sits on a bench on the other side of the tracks, a near permanent fixture at this station, no matter the time of day or night. “I have to go, my train is here and it’s rude to talk on the phone. Bye!”  
Mia’s protest is cut off as you drop the call.

You don’t look at Honey or Blue.

They know perfectly well what happened last night, why the pop was never eaten. But that didn’t matter. You were fine. You had to be fine. Your trains pulls up. Today was going to be a boring, average, normal day. 

“Now, anything else you guys want to add to the shopping list other than honey?”

Okay is an easier illusion to maintain when you ignore your problems. Maybe tomorrow you will face them. Or the next day. Just not today. Because you know if you thought too much on those dreams, or your mother or even the why behind your new precious friends...you wouldn’t be fine. And right now, you are desperate for a little okay. A little bittersweet ignorance.

So you will go shopping. And you will do laundry. And you will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Just a typical work day...right?
> 
> This is laaaaaaate. Winter is weird for me. The changes in light mess with my head and make it all muddled and make me sleepy all the time.


	9. Figment

The day passes in a quiet, mindless haze. Groceries are bought, laundry washed and folded and food consumed. Neither Honey nor Blue leave your side—clingier than expected—both quick to settle on your shoulders or lap once you sat down. You may have spent the better part of the evening streaming cat videos and listening to music while in bed instead of letting yourself think. Books, movies, video games—none of it held appeal, your focus lost in a mire of swallowed down assertions that you weren’t trying to drown out the sound of honking and squeaking brakes. 

When a new morning arrives, you wake to the sound of your phone alarm blaring, feeling...hollow. Like someone carved out your ribcage with a melon baller and sewed you back up again, the stitches made of spider silk strung through with viper fangs. You can’t remember your dreams, but your head and body ache, telltale of a restless evening. It doesn’t help that you’re not much of a morning person, this whole waking up with the dawn business a chore no easier now than it was in highschool. At least your job technically started later. Gave you plenty of time to drag yourself through the motions of getting dressed and presentable, before hauling your butt out of the door, bagged lunch in one hand, keys in the other, little more than a shambling zombie. 

Mumbling a bleary good morning to Honey, you crawl out of bed and into the shower, snagging a change of clothes on the way into the bathroom. When you emerge, slightly more alert and clad in slim-legged black jeans and a plain tee (thank goodness for the generally casual dress code), the pop of the toaster splits the quiet. Blue is once more the kitchen, busying himself with a light breakfast for the the household. You grab your backpack from by the bedroom door and shuffle towards the fridge, stuffing a pre-prepped sandwich and a baggie of crunchy veggies into the insulated lunch box you’ve owned since high school. After a moment of consideration, you grab the soup from a couple nights ago, “This okay for y’all?” The pair nod as you add it to the box and zip it shut.

“That all you’re packing?” Blue asks, munching on a rather...crispy chunk of crust. Your eyes flicker to the plate he laid out. Four slices of half-charred toast sit in a blackened mountain, the topmost piece missing a few sizeable bites. Honey was sitting next to it, having already tipped over the new honeybear to saturate his chosen hunk of charcoal. The bittie shoves the goey, burnt treat into his mouth and chews away, unperturbed by the state of the bread. Interesting—far from enticing, but interesting. 

You rattle your lunch, “Yep. I mean, I work at a desk most of the day. Doesn’t work up much of an appetite.” Blue’s eyelights shrink a degree, quivering with evident disapproval. “Whatever soup you guys don’t eat I can nibble on.” He keeps staring. With a sigh, you open the fridge again, looking for something else to add so that he would stop staring at you with that sad expression. How could something with a permanent smile even look so pitiful? The infamous cake pop catches your eye. Perfect. “There. Now Mia won’t pester me when she visits. Surprised she hasn’t broken in yet.” Probably giving you some space to adjust. Unlike her, you don’t always react the best to too much comforting when bad things happen. Sure, you needed the reassurance, the hugs and all that. But it is easy to become overwhelmed. To shut down...to lash out.

Tears spring up. Burning. Itching. Each drop stings as they are blinked away. Swallowing, you shove away all thoughts away that do not pertain to prepping for the morning. You need to get ready and get to work. There you can lose yourself in routine. Distract yourself with the daily grind, maybe some light conversation with a coworker to two. They will want to fuss. They’re good people. You are lucky like that. 

“You sure don’t want to call in?” Blue says. “Another day of rest would—”

“I can’t,” you interrupt. It isn’t a lie, but it isn’t exactly the truth. You could take another day off, your manager would let you, remind that was what personal days were for. But anxiousness itched, your thoughts a racing muddle at the prospect of waiting until you are ‘better’ to go back to work. You are fine. You have to be fine. You just need to get back to doing what were doing before the accident and everything will return to normal. On top of that, bills need paying. You spent so much money these past few days. If you miss too much work—give them reason to think you’re too unwell to maintain your position, be less valuable, become a burden—you could lose your job! 

It isn’t until small hands touch your face that you realize you’re breathing raggedly, entire body shaking from the mental onslaught. You blink back more unwilling tears, cupping the pair of skeletons with your palms, as if to prove that they were real, that you were indeed here and alive. You still have your job. Your home. Your health. You are safe. 

Blue rubs you thumb and murmurs gentle words until you stop shivering. 

“wipe your face, sunny,” Honey suggests, tugging at Blue’s arm. “have some water. we gotta leave soon, right?”

You nod and place them on the counter, nearly jolting when you noticed the time. In a flurry, you wash your face and sling back a couple slices of almost-toast, before speeding for the door, the duo ushered onto your backpack before you left. 

 

The train ride goes uneventfully, and nobody looks twice on your way through the lobby to the elevators. It isn’t until you make your way to your desk that anyone says a word to you since leaving home. 

“Oh my god, they are awesome! When did you get bitties?” It is one of the studio artists, Nikolas, in all his low-key gothic adult glory. He is the kind of man rarely found in anything but black, and his workspace is adorned in pictures of his three precious mini panthers, a skull mug, and the Jiji plushie you bought him for his birthday last year. And he is also one of the few cross department friends you have at the agency. “And they’re skeletons. Nice! Thought you were more of a soft and fluffy person.” Who fed your cat fix by showing you his fur babies’ antics.

“I am...but bitties choose you. I got them, ah, recently. They wanted to come to work with me,” you say, motioning to them and making introductions. Blue and Honey greeted Nikolas politely, shaking his pinky when offered, but were otherwise quiet and subdued. 

“Huh. Baby Blues are usually on the hyper side. Surprised Blue here is sitting so still. You shy, buddy?”

Huh. You never thought about that. Their being Helpers required a great deal of training and patience, and Blue did display a need to exert himself. Is it to make sure he doesn’t act inappropriately at times like this when he needs to behave a certain way?

“He’s not shy,” you say, thinking about service animals and their vests. Did you need to get them little shirts that proclaim that they’re Helpers? Was that a thing? Should you be telling people not to talk or touch them? Your heart speeds up. “I got to go check in. Talk to you later?” 

“Later!” Nikolas waves, settling himself in his swivel chair, earbuds popped in place.

You hurry to the side of the agency you worked. Tucked away from the creatives and their flamboyantly decorated stations. Photos of families and little potted plants replaced action figures and pinned sketches, and there was nary a plushie in sight. Instead, there are decades old filing cabinets with just enough dings and dents to make one question the integrity of the mechanisms within. You drop into your own seat, eyes trailing across the neat little stacks of paperwork and the sticky note ridden calendar laying by your telephone. The only adornments breaking the starkness of it all are a tiny collection of mugs gathered at the corner, each a gift. One is from your manager from when you were hired, mostly white with a smattering of green spots. One is slightly more ornate, with china blue stylings, from your coworker Camille when she went to New York and brought back souvenirs for everyone in your little department. The last is from Nikolas—all black with ‘meh.’ written on the front in white comic sans. 

“So, uh, this is it. Not all that exciting, I’m afraid. If y’all want to stay home after today, I’m fine with that since you’ll have to spend most of your time just sitting and being quiet and that can’t be very—”

“heh. breathe, sunny, it’s cool. we’re here for you,” Honey declares, sidling up to the meh mug and leaning against it. In his brazenly orange attire, it’s a striking contrast. “guessin’ niko there doesn’t know what happened.” There is a knowing note in his tone. Blue clutches at your shoulder, remaining close to your pulse, silent. You can almost hear him thinking. “so what’cha do ‘round here?”

“Accounting. Somebody has to take care of finances at any business.”

“there a reason you chose here?”

You glance around at the vibrantly painted walls, an old ache twinging at your gut, “It pays. People here have been good to me. Gave me a chance when I had no experience out of school.”

“why accounting? saw you’re sketchbook…”

“I...It’s sensible. I’d have never made it as an artist, anyway, much less at a place like this,” you reply. “It’s pretty cutthroat y’know. Anyway, I should find my manager. She should in the kitchen around this time.” Picking up the polka dot mug, you trail your way to the staff kitchen, spotting your manager making coffee. You draw in a deep breath, swallow the frog in your throat and plaster on a smile. 

You’ll be fine.

 

The work day passes with relative ease. Your manager takes a moment to fuss when you explain in more detail what happened with your car, and thank her for allowing you to bring the bitties with you to the office. The no animal policy did not extend to certain bitties species, which, to your relief, did not affect your pair. Everyone who saw them seemed fascinated, though luckily most didn’t attempt to approach or touch. 

By lunch, you lost yourself in the haze of routine, though focus was hard to come by. When an email took five tries to write and still didn’t make sense at the end, you stepped away from your computer to eat. 

When five ticks by on the clock, signaling the end of your shift, you yawn and shut down your computer. Normal. It was nice to return to normal. Right? So why were you trembling? Why did your head hurt so much? Why did you want to lay your head down on the desk and do nothing? You shake away those errant thoughts to look at your Helpers. Honey is asleep in a tipped over mug, and Blue is sitting beside him, armed with a certain cake pop. Oh...right…

“You’ve been kinda quiet today, Blue.”

He stands up and taps the end of the stick against the desk, “I’m working. Work is very serious.” The cheery note you’re familiar with is absent. Distant. He hasn’t seemed himself all day.

Your heart skips, “...Are you upset with me?”

Bright eyelights bloom wide as he shakes his head with a fervor, “NO! I...no, Mama. Never. I’m just...worried.”

You glance around, spotting no one nearby who could overhear your conversation. Regardless, you still lower your voice, “Why?” You’ve done okay these past couple days. Held it together for the most part. No panicked break downs. You functioned like a useful member of society. He averts his gaze and in response, your hand trails up to your collarbone, a reflex you are slowly developing. Is it a soul thing?

“Maybe tomorrow you should have lunch with Nikolas, or tonight you should invite Mia over,” Blue suggests, nudging Honey with the stick. 

“Again, why?”

“‘cause you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m not. I’ve got you two,” you reply, scooping them up. “Unless you’re planning on leaving…”

“nah, you’re stuck with us, sunny. so get that thought outta your head. but we’re pretty new in your life, and you’ve got strong bonds with those two. maybe tellin’ the panic at the disco wannabe what happened will make you stress less when you’re around him…’less you’re treatin’ the accident like some bad secret, only tellin’ folks on a need to know basis.” A thick silence draws between the three of you. “mm. it’s up to you, kiddo. we won’t tell, and we can’t make you do somethin’ you don’t wanna do.”

“Like eat desert,” Blue chimes.

You shake your head and retrieve the pop, slinging your backpack on your shoulder as you head for the elevators. Your train will arrive in about ten minutes. It’s plenty of time to meander from your floor to the station just a short jaunt down the street. All you have to do is pass between the building and the parking garage next door and loop left around the block and it was right there. Sure it is a bit sketchy at night, but with summer lighting it up late, it’s plenty bright. You think nothing of your little journey until a loud clang draws your attention to the opposite side of the street. 

Nobody is there. No cars are passing, so that meant no one threw a bottle out a window (which did indeed happen on occasion). Must have been a cat (or rat), rummaging in the garbage bins. With a shrug, you continue on, sparing one last towards the trash cans before they fall out of sight. You think you spot a gleam of red, like the burning end of a cigarette, but you blink and it’s gone. A figment of your imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: A late night at the office
> 
> (The cake pop lives on)
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone! As my treat to my readers, I'm running an [ask comic on my tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/181258459462/holiday-ask-pg-1-2-cast-smoke-in-the-mirror). Feel free to pose questions to any of my cast of characters, including Blue and Honey~ It can be serious or silly and I highly encourage people to come pester me there. I've a week off for Christmas and hope to make some fun content in that time!


	10. Fright

Blue is mad at you.

You are certain of it.

When you assured Mia that you were just calling to say hello, that she shouldn’t worry and should go on her date, his little shoulders dropped. When you put that cake pop back in the fridge and nibbled on carrots dipped in ranch dressing for dinner, his usually endless chatter drew to a lull. When you rose the next morning, exhausted from a night spent tossing-and-turning, he greeted you with the same vivacious smile but there was a falseness to his enthusiasm. Yet he said nothing except the same urgings as before, insisting you eat breakfast and watching as you stuff your lunchbox in the same manner as the morning before.

“Mia said she would be free tonight during your last chat,” Blue remarks hours later when you sit down for lunch. He and Honey both are being especially touchy today, both insisting on perching on your shoulder or lap as you worked, neither straying to where your phone laid charging. The boredom of just sitting there, quiet, has to be unbearable. You sigh and fidget with the zipper of your lunch box, unable to meet those wide eyelights.

“I’m probably going to be working late tonight,” is your reply. “You saw the pile on my desk this morning, it’s a mess, and the client is insisting that the project needed done yesterday, despite approval for work to be budgeted not being expected from them until this afternoon. And then there’s—”

“After you get off work then.”

“Blue...Mia works mornings on Wednesdays. I’m not keeping her up late.”

“...” His teeth part as if he wishes to speak, but he closes his jaw tight, clutching at the hem of your shirt. Honey rubs between his shoulders, his gentle attentions at least helping ease some of the evident tension in Blue’s body. “Okay. Tomorrow. You’ll call her tomorrow.”

There is a finality to the statement. As if he will dial up your friend himself if he has to. Not wanting to upset him further, uncertain, you nod. You can’t muster up words. For some reason, they taste bitter, crumbling to dust in your mouth.

As expected, your work day runs long.

Most of the agency has gone home save for the unlucky souls also tangled up in this client’s nonsense. You’re one of maybe ten people left on the floor, the sun low on the horizon. The fact that it is getting dark before you are home, in the summer, when the days are longest, emphasizes how drawn out this fiasco is. By the time you pack up and leave, you have a headache that is some hellish hybrid spawn of hunger, tiredness and eye strain. It blurs your vision a touch. You otherwise feel numb. Who cares if there’s a drunken stagger to your step?

Feet dragging audibly on the cement, you trudge towards the train station.

So lost in your thoughts, you yelp in alarm when something darts beneath your feet. Was that a rat? Oh god, please don’t be a rat. Rats bite and have fleas and then you’d have to go to the hospital to check for weird diseases and—you freeze, noticing that twin pinpricks of red light pierce the darkness, shining in nearly the same place as the evening before when you dismissed the incident as a delusion. It makes you increasingly aware of how poorly lit this stretch of your walk is compared to the station.

“H-hello?” Great, you sound like a frightened idiot. A mugger’s fantasy. Bet you look it right now too, standing rigid with fright like a cornered rabbit and staring at what your brain is crafting to be a demon rat, with smoking infernos for eyes, that is after your immortal soul...and has rabies. Don’t forget the rabies  
.  
“...He’s hungry.”

You snap your head to the side, “He?” Blue is staring at the red lights, a hand rubbing at his chest. It’s too dark to see his expression. The glow of his pupils are quivering orbs in near formless shadow. 

Blue doesn’t elaborate but instead says, “I don’t think he will hurt us. You’re big and scary to someone so small.”

Maybe it was the guilt and anxieties you wadded up and swallowed and pretended didn’t give you reflux, or perhaps it was the barest crack in the Helper’s voice, but instead of continuing to your train, your feet lead you across the street, stilling only when you reached the dumpster. The red flickers out. There isn’t a whisper or squeak. Not a shuffle or skitter. It’s like the owner of those lights vanished into thin air. 

You shiver and rub you face with a sleeve. It reeks over here. Rotting garbage entwined with the stink of urine. Even in the poor light you can see the crushed remains of an abandoned soda can and a scattering of cigarette butts. There is a dark stain creeping beneath the giant, graffitied bin that you can only hope is oil. 

A pause. You listen. Nothing.

You brain takes this opportunity to remind you that this was the moment when the unwitting plot fodder in a horror movie is grabbed by some unmentionable beast and dragged screaming into its alleyway lair, jump scaring the viewer. Except this isn’t a movie, and you are still half-paranoid that if you poke around any further, some crazed rodent will eat your face off.

“sunny?”

“Sunshine?”

The synchronized inquiry makes you flinch, but you quickly relax, offering them a slight smile. It’s weak and likely a little crazed looking. “Just...checking…” you tell them, patting around your side until you find the zipper to your lunch box. The root of a surprising number of arguments laid at the bottom, still uneaten and no doubt a touch stale by now. As it’s withdrawn, the clear plastic covering the cake pop crinkles. “Um, Blue, it...he...isn’t a cat or dog is he?”

“No?” he confirms, though it was evident he was curious as to why it mattered.

You unwrap the pop and lay it on a scrap piece of paper sticking to the ground. Better than right on top of that unknown stain, you suppose, if barely. A willing sacrifice to the (maybe) demon rat. May he have mercy. “Y’said he was hungry. And well, guess I haven’t been feeling up to any sweets. Be a pity if it went to waste.” The plastic in your hand crinkles as you tighten your fist.

With that, you walk away, glancing back at the dumpster until it fell out of sight.

You are late to your train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Denial aint just a river in Egypt
> 
> (It only took 10 chapters, but it happened, woo! xD)
> 
> Late (short) chapter, I know, but everything sorta got put on a short hold for the last little bit. BECAUSE LIFE. But I should be getting back into the swing of things here soon~ ^_^


	11. Fracture

Threat of another late night at work makes the promise you made to Blue sour upon your lips. You know at noon that you won’t be going home on time, and the Helper’s expression falls upon affirming it to him. “Hey, maybe it won’t be too bad tonight, and I can still talk to Mia on the phone when I get home,” you say, and he perks up, looking less wilted as he sits on the edge of your desk. In fact, he’s practically starry-eyed when Nickolas pops by and asks you if you want to catch lunch, and you can’t refuse when you see his eyelights practically bursting out of the sockets.

So you spend an hour chatting with Nickolas at Grillby’s, a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill run by a family of fire elementals. It’s packed for the afternoon rush, but the pair of you take a seat outside on the porch where it’s quieter and can talk. It is...nice. Honey and Blue pepper the artist with questions about his job, his cats and why he wore so much black. “Because it is the best color,” he tells them with an eyebrow waggle. “It matches the darkness in my soul.” Nickolas chuckles at his mischief, quieting when Blue informs him that there is utterly nothing dark about his soul and shouldn’t say such things about himself.

Honey elbows Blue with a reminder about not talking about people’s souls and the little Helper shuffles his feet, “Sorry. That was terribly rude of me.”

“No, no. I mean, you guys are like, little monsters and souls are a big to monsters, yeah? Didn’t know you guys could see them.” Luckily, your co-worker seems utterly fascinated instead of concerned. “And the whole darkness thing was a joke. Uh, hope that wasn’t offensive to you guys…”

“Not at all! And most of us can’t see them.”

“blue here is special,” Honey leans on the last word and flops on top of his fellow helper, eliciting squawk. 

“This is unprofessional! Off of me!”

“what did you say? you want a hug?”

Nickolas chuckles at their antics, and soon enough, the pair are done with their almost sibling-like bickering. Fries are more important. It was nice to seem them more relaxed, less stiff-backed, as if their work meant sacrificing any and all personality beyond helping. Maybe you will ask them why later…

“So, what happened?” You blink at the artist through a bite of hamburger. He has a fork in one hand and starts cutting his sandwich in half. “You’ve barely come over to talk since you called out sick last week.” He peers over his glasses and pops a forkful of neatly diced burger into his mouth. 

“Ah, well…” Nothing, you want to tell him nothing happened. It would be better that way. You don’t need another person reminding you that you should just get over this whole car thing. But, his father is a lot like your mother. He has a sister that acts just like Mia. The pair of you bonded over childhood stories. Maybe… “I was in a car accident. I’m fine. Of course. Nobody was badly hurt. Car was totaled.”

“Damn, why didn’t you say something earlier?” Nickolas’ empathetic stare makes you choke on your tongue, tears stinging hot an unexpected. 

Lunch runs long.

Neither of your Helpers say a word until you’re back at the office.

But when you sit down, Blue is smiling again.

 

,

 

As predicted, your day ran long.

It’s dark when you leave the agency, once more wandering to your train without the comfort of the usual bustle of the rush hour crowd. You pass the dumpster and pause, taking a long look at the gloomy shape across the street, no signs of demon rats. Or even ordinary rats. With a sigh you trudge onward, absently kicking an empty can down the sidewalk. Except, the moment your foot collides with the side of the can, you know instantly it isn’t empty. There is weight to it. Food? The can clatters across the cement and a cry rings out. Oh god. Was there an animal in it? 

You hesitate, waiting for a small critter to come rushing out. None did. Blue stirs on your shoulder, waking from the light doze he’d drifted into, and inhales sharply. That is enough to send you into action. Dropping to your knees you pick up the can and peek inside, fully expecting to see the broken corpse of some poor mouse, and are instead met with the sight of bones. A skeleton bittie. He doesn’t move or react to your presence, eyelights missing from his sockets.  
Unconscious? You shiver at the sight of a nasty split in his skull, cracking a massive rift over the crown into his right socket. It’s impossible to know if that was a new injury or old in the dark.

“Shit.” You weren’t one for swearing overly much, but what else was there to say? He obviously needed medical attention, and without his owner in sight, that left you to help. Bitties couldn’t survive on their own. That line echoed loud from the pamphlets and articles. Leaving him here was a death sentence. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We just need...uh, we’ll get you to a vet. Is the vet open? I think there is a pet hospital a few blocks from the New Home Station.” You found it during those early days where you thought about getting a cat, before your apartment changed their pet policy. Gingerly, you remove the bittie from the can, only for pain to lance through your wrist. You jerk you hand back to find little red bones embedded in skin like wasp stingers.

“UNHAND HIM, WRETCH!”

A figure about the size of Honey bolts across the street, twin embers burning in his sockets. He slides between you and the unconscious bittie, all fangs and tattered clothes. The glow of a street lamp offers little clarity, but based on his size and attitude, you can guess exactly what breed he is. Anyone who watched the news in the past five years knows about the’ watch listed’ bitties, the ones that over concerned soccer moms everywhere declared as unsafe to be around children. This one was undeniably a Boss variant. Renowned for callousness and bullying. Some people even reported their Bosses dusting other bitties! 

The Boss growls and menaces you with the glowing polearm in his palm, “IF YOU WISH TO KEEP YOUR FINGERS, I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE NOW, BEFORE I START REMOVING THEM! YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH HARM ALREADY.”

“Hey! Don’t hurt Mama Sunshine,” Blue shouted, and to your horror, he clambered down your shirt and slipped to the ground before you could grab him. Honey went stiff, clutching at the fabric of your collar. You flounder between grabbing Blue or simply stepping between the pair, but before you can make a choice, the Boss leaps at your Helper, and Blue meets him head on, swinging a pair of bones up to meet his assault. “Stop that. Friendly sparring is great for bonding, but fighting like this in the street is crude. But if you persist in this manner I will have to disable further attempts to harm us. We only wish to help him.”

“LYING RUNT! YOU JUST WANT TO TAKE HIM AWAY!”

Honey leaned forward, his voice hushed, “they must be bonded. i can’t tell how…oh blue...” You watched as the pair continued to face off, the Boss lashing out as Blue defended, clearly still trying to talk him down. “hey, they’ve moved out of the way. better act fast, sunny, before this gets worse.” You jerk your gaze back to the can and curls your fingers. He’s right. Now or never. You kneel and scoop up the tiny ball of bones, noting the mouth full of pointy teeth and the shiny metal fang. At some point he had someone care enough to install a replacement. Edgy’s and Cherry’s were renowned for losing teeth—the former because of their bad biting habits, and the latter for their chewing habits. They were worse than toddlers about what they put into their mouths. Given the state of this little one, it was impossible to tell which he was without him being conscious and watching his behavior.

“YOU FUCKER! I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET EVER BEING BORN!” Holy guacamole, did that bittie just call you what you think he just called you? 

Blue gave an offended gasp, “Language!”

The Boss ceased paying him any mind and barged at you, bones in both hands, a battle cry leaping from his nonexistent throat. You start stepping back when a cyan bone impales his chest, passing through like a ghost through the wall of an abandoned mansion. He shrieks in outrage as his chest—his soul—turns blue. With a shout of his own, Blue yanks his arm backwards and with that motion, flings the Boss into the empty can. “Victory belongs to the Magnificent Blue! Mwehehe!” That was...kinda awesome but also horrifying. You never wanted to see him or any other bittie fight ever again. Even if full-sized Monsters ‘battled’ all the time with the Encounter system, a street brawl couldn’t possibly be acceptable. 

“Come on Blue, let’s go.” You cradle the injured bittie in one palm and offer the Helper your other. Honey taps at your cheek.

“sunny, pal, we can’t leave him here.” He points at the can where the Boss had yet to emerge. “blue’s got good control. he always knows the limits of another’s soul. but when that guy wakes up and finds this little man missing? he’ll probably go nuts trying to find him.”

“I-I...I don’t…” You can’t handle this right now. Nobody should ever put their lives in your hands. Stupid. Worthless. The glaze of calm that fogged your mind for the past couple days began to fracture. Sharp and jagged. The idea of suffering or death sent a tizzy of near hysteria through your brain. So you do the one thing that your short-circuiting mind allows. You tuck the injured bittie in the pocket of your pullover and pick up the can, covering it with a palm. Blue climbs up your leg and clambers into the pocket with the other bittie, already prepared to act in aid of his fellow skeleton. “Vet. We...go...Uh...Train. Yeah. Need to get to the train.”

With that nonsense on your lips, you run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Time:** A late night trip to the vet
> 
>  
> 
> Long story short, LIFE HAPPENED. Layoffs at work right before busy season, some killer late nights and a stress injury that left me in a wrist brace, made writing rather hard to do! That being said, I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things, as well as share some of the short stories I've been typing at when I could and the muse struck. Thank you everyone for your patience and support~


	12. Fever

Aside from the twitchy guy at the opposite end of the car, there is nobody else on the train. Which means you can have your mini meltdown in relative privacy as you wait to reach your station. Because you are definitely melting down. Freaking out. Having an unwanted break. All inside your head. Because right now, you have two unconscious bitties in your care, one cradled in a pocket, the other captured in a large tin can. Blue fusses over the smaller skeleton, shifting about in your hoodie pocket as best he can in an attempt to make the little guy comfortable. He's not dust, so all you know for certain is that you didn't accidentally kill him...little comforts. As for Honey...he sits on your knee, staring intently at your hand, as if expecting the Boss to slip between your fingers and escape.

You shiver, too panicked to panic properly. You've experienced this sensation before. When you're safe at home, you'll fall apart. There's too much at stake to lose your senses. Adrenaline spurring your frantic heart into a ceaseless drum that deafens and leaves you breathless. 

The train ride feels painfully long. Was it always this long?

You're managing to swallow down the urge to curl up and cry when Honey makes a noise of warning. Pain explodes in your hand. “FUDGENOODLES AND FRICKBISCUITS! What the hell?” you glance down to see little red bones jutting through your palm. It was magic so there was a surprising lack of blood…”MOTHER TRUCKER!” Just as you are processing the first assault, the Boss lunges up and chomps on you. He sinks every pointed fang into where your middle finger meets your hand and that hurt something special. You bite your lip and keep the can covered. Letting him out right now was worse than all this bleeding. Because if you weren't before, you are now.

Then comes the shouting. 

Apparently this bittie has a colorful vocabulary at his disposal and isn’t afraid to tell you exactly where he'd shove a blue attack if he wasn't confined in his impromptu prison. Then Honey is on top of your hand, humming softly, hands pawing at the cuts, green magic trailing after his phalanges. “hey bud, bossman, whatever, chill out, your mate is gonna be fine, we're just takin’ him to the doc.” This isn't the right thing to say because the Boss screams further profanities and rakes his claws into your palm. “not your mate, eh? well you're sure acting like it. courtin’ him?”

You had no idea why was provoking the Boss until you heard the aggressive bittie sputter in disgust, “NO!”

“soul bonds aint anythin’ to sniff at, bud. i get it. makes things real scary sometimes. you got some complex that makes ya think people knowing about your bond will make them think you're weak? he's a cute little thing so i get why--”

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP? YOU'RE MAKING ME WANT TO GOUGE MY EARS OUT SO I CANNOT HEAR YOUR VILE IMPLICATIONS AND I DON'T HAVE ANY ANGEL FORSAKEN EARS!”

“heh. can do if you quit the rapid racoon routine. sunny here is trying to help.”

“BAH. IT IS THE HUMAN'S FAULT MY BR--THAT MY COMPANION IS INJURED.”

“that what they're calling it these days?”

The Boss gives an incomprehensible scream and lunges up again, but before he can start biting and clawing, Honey shoves an arm between your fingers and flicks him between the sockets. He startles like a dog that had been bopped on the nose with a newspaper. Thus began an unexpected stare off as the pair met sockets and just...well, didn't move. Eyelights glow with growing intensity, but there is neither give nor take, both skeletons holding their ground. It is the Boss that breaks the standoff, growling, “KEEP YOUR FILTHY MANIPULATIONS TO YOURSELF, ASHTRAY!”

“you're a bit off the mark there, edgelord. you must have me confused with another handsome skeleton, because i don't smoke.” Bitties can smoke? “and if you'd chill out, maybe take a nap, i wouldn't have to use my magic on you. gotta protect my human and all that.”

“YOU REEK OF IT. ALL THREE OF YOU DO.”

“ah, that's the smell of a good ol’ bar-and-grill. those fire elementals that run it can’t help it if they’re smokin’ hot. you've a class a sniffer don'tcha? or you really hate smoking that much...guessing your owner…?”

“I DON'T HAVE AN OWNER! ALL YOU HUMAN PETS CAN GO DIE IN A DITCH.”

Honey nods and sits up, looking weary but thoughtful. And the Boss doesn't further maim your hand. Amazing...he actually de-escalated the situation with all that sass. Blue may be the 'talker’ of the pair but Honey isn't bad at it himself! You suppose that makes sense. Same training and all. “you holdin’ it together, sunny?” You blink and nod. Barely. Just barely. It's enough for now. “hey blue, how’s the little guy?” 

The Helper popped his head out of your pocket, “I think he’s just sleeping? It’s hard to tell what injuries are new and old.”

“that bad?”

“His HP is lower than yours.”

Honey stiffens, then sighs. Before any further discussion can be had, the train pulls into your stop. Armed with pacified Boss-in-a-can, you scamper from the car, and across the street. You hate being alone in the dark. It’s late and your nerves are fried and stepping on a plastic bag is enough to startle a yelp from you. But you persevere. It is fortunately not too far to the pet hospital. Jogging in through the sliding doors, you’re greeted by the low woof of somebody’s dog. The lobby is all tile, every surface cast yellow by the cheap lighting. It smells like fur and antiseptic. You swallow down precious air as you slide to a stop at the reception desk, blinking wildly upon seeing who sat there, staring back at you.

“Frisk? But you work at…?”

They flash a smile and a finger gun, “What, never seen someone with more than one job before? I intern here. Part of my degree requirements.” Frisk sobers, well aware of the fact that you just recently adopted Helpers and here you are, breathless in a hospital. “Something happen to the boys?”

“N-no,” you lay the can on the counter, bloodied hand still firm over the top. “Hey Blue, can you?” You reach down to the pocket, and the Helper clambered onto your palm, the unconscious skeleton in his arms. With care, you bring them forward, “I found these two in the street today. I...ah, kicked what I thought was an empty can, and he was in there...and then this guy started attacking me...and well, here we are!” Your voice is pitched high, almost hysteric. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Frisk frowns as they take in the pitiful lump in Blue’s hold, and then motions at the can, “What kind of bittie is in there?”

“A Boss?”

Their eyebrows shoot up, “And he was protecting this other one? I’m guessing he was the one to injure you too...That’s so strange. They’re not known for getting along with other bitties, except the occasional Poppy, like Honey. But he’s not as complacent and eager to please as some...I don’t picture there being any hero worship going on in the future…” They shake their head, “Let’s get him into a proper, er, kennel, while you fill out some paperwork. He can’t be very comfortable in a can of all things.”

They slide over a clipboard and duck through the door behind them, emerging a minute later with a cardboard box with holes in the sides. You move the can into the box and tip it, thankful that the Boss doesn’t fight the transfer. He does, however, leap to his feet and lunge for the edge the moment he is free, snarling threats like before. The Boss quiets upon seeing seeing his unconscious companion in Blue’s arms, and fixes his stare on him. The Helper sighs, “Will you stop yelling and biting if you can wait for the vet with your friend?”

“IF YOU GIVE HIM TO ME WE CAN LEAVE BEFORE YOU OR YOUR HUMANS CAN HURT HIM MORE! I DIDN’T ASK FOR YOUR SO CALLED HELP, RUNT.”

“We’ll you’re getting help for his sake, and not yours, so deal,” Blue sasses back, taking on an unusually harsh tone. The Boss’ eyelights flare but he sits down, arms crossed, glowering into the corner of the container like it insulted his ancestors and he wishes to wreak unholy revenge in as bloody a manner as physically possible. Blue watches him before tapping you hand, and bidding you to move him over the box. With a little help, he climbs inside too, sitting down with the other skeleton across his lap. The Boss growls and twitches, but doesn’t attack. Oh boy.

You fill out paperwork, keeping on eye on the box at all times, thankful when Frisk tells you that the vet on site is able to see you soon. The minutes drag by like a root canal, tense and with an ever present expectation for there to be sudden blood and suffering. But you are invited into the back without incident. The vet is a human. Tall, dark and slim, with a shot of silver through his short beard. “Dr. Marcus Kingfield,” he says in introduction, before summoning over an assistant, and the pair begin their inspection of the bitties. The tech is a rabbit monster, and her paws glow a range of hues as she lifts and turns the bitties, keeping calm even as the Boss begins to curse and chew on her. 

“Poor little fella,” she pets the Boss. He shrieks. His commotion only quiets when green magic alights in her fingertips, and soothes over the gouges across his socket. The rabbit monster set him down and speaks lowly with Dr. Kingfield, before exiting the room. The vet nods to you, “According to the forms you filled out, you found these two outside without any signs of an owner nearby?”

“Yes.”

“How unusual, but I suppose that explains their poor health. The little one, as you surmised on the paperwork, is either an edgy or cherry type. He looks like he needs another replacement tooth, but otherwise, there isn’t much we can do for his injuries. They’re old and have scarred over due to lack of medical attention. Though some improvement should be seen when put on a magic enriched diet. He’s underweight, which for skeleton breeds, usually means poor bone density, which will make him prone to breaks and chips, possibly for the rest of his life. Even getting him up to a good weight may never restore full strength to them. My assistant says she felt magic in the socket below the crack, so he shouldn’t have completely lost vision, if any at all. They’re remarkably hardy creatures, in that way.” Dr. Kingfield then motions to the Boss. “Same deal with him, though Bosses are known for being incredibly durable, even for bitties. Despite their proclivity for fighting, it’s unusual to see one walk away injured from a scrap, so whatever this one got into must have been bad.”

“FUCK YOU!”

The vet chuckles, clearly unthreatened, “They will both need some medical ointments applied to their bones once a day for the next month or so, as well as mineral baths at least every other day until they regain some weight. The little one has low HP and is quite literally sleeping until it’s up again. To heal itself, his body has put itself into what is best described as an emergency, energy conservation state. He’ll wake up naturally in six to eight hours, I believe, at which point he’ll need a good meal to boost his magic reserves so he doesn’t slip back into this state again.” He begins to pull out some kind of wet wipes from the cabinets. “He had a mild fever at the moment as well, but that is normal with this kind of healing sleep. If he becomes cold, that’s when you need to worry, because a rapid loss in body temperature is the first symptom of Falling Down, which is fatal if allowed to progress.” 

Where before they left the bitties’ clothes on for the most part, the vet gently removed the smaller skeleton’s ragged attire, from his ratty jacket to his over-worn shoes. You pick up the collar he lays to the side, noting the lack of tag and the oxidized hue of the spikes. Once stripped, the vet wipes the bittie down with the wipe, explaining that there was healing magic imbued in it, which made it ideal for sanitizing shallow wounds.

“Hm, it’s no good to put him back in those clothes. They’re filthy. I don’t have anything here that would fit him, but bundling him up in a washcloth will be better than dressing him in those again.” He fetches a cloth from a drawer and makes a tiny burrito out of the bittie. “Now, your turn,” Dr. Kingfield reaches for the Boss, who threatens bodily harm if he so much as thinks about removing his clothes. “Shy? Would it be better if the other two look away? I’m sure they’d be willing to—”

“DON’T TOUCH ME, HUMAN SCUM!”

At this point the rabbit tech returns with a small bag, the vet smiles, “Thank you, Lonnie. This grand fellow seems to find my being human distasteful, would you be so kind as to clean his wounds up for me?” She nods and scoops up the Boss, cooing and petting him with more green magic until he stops screaming, undressing him thereafter like he is a doll. The vet must see your confusion because he says, “She has a remarkable talent for calming restless souls. Human, monster, animal—it’s a godsend having her around. Ah, there we go, not so bad, now was it?”

Lonnie wraps the muttering bittie in a white cloth and places him into the box next to his sleeping companion.

“Now, here are the medications you need and Frisk can get you a bag of magic enrichment pellets,” the vet explains everything that needs to be done, not even pausing to let you have a word edgewise on the fact that these aren’t your bitties. Like finding them on the street and bringing them in now meant that you’re suddenly their owner or something. Then again, you aren’t sure if rescues took in sick bitties. And with Boss being so problematic and refusing to part with his companion, would they refuse them because they wouldn’t want him hurting others? 

In the end, you do as you always do.

You stand passively and nod, paying the bill and folding shut the box without so much as an attempt at protest. Frisk watches you with that focused (determined?) look in their eyes as they hand over the supplies you were prescribed. And just like that, in what felt like a whirlwind, you end up outside of the hospital, a little dazed with tears creeping down your cheeks. 

It’s close to one in the morning.

You aren’t getting any sleep tonight.


	13. Floor

The journey home is uneventful, albeit surreal in the worst of ways. Blue and Honey ride on your shoulders as you stagger into your apartment with plastic bags dangling from both elbows, hands full with a cardboard box containing unexpected guests. You lay everything on the floor of your bedroom, dropping alongside it with a huff and a groan. Your eyes burn. Your mouth is dry. There’s a shakiness to your head and vision that is only half-excused as exhaustion. “Mama Sunshine?” Blue lays a hand on your neck and you shudder, swallowing down all the stress because you need to be strong for just a little longer. 

“Give me half an hour, Blue. I need to make sure these two are settled in for the night. I’ll...I’ll figure out the rest in the morning,” you start unpacking the medicine. It’d only been a couple days and here you are in desperate need of another day off. Your manager would give it to you. She’s good like that. But so much PTO used in such a short amount of time...wasn’t that unprofessional or something? Soon the only thing left to unbox are the bitties. With a shiver, you open the carrying crate, revealing the exact reason why the Boss wasn’t screaming profanities any longer. He was asleep (or maybe he’d passed out? The vet did say he was in rough shape), having escaped his burrito and curled protectively around the smaller bittie, the cloth thrown over the both of them. You loath to wake them. However, it seems you don’t need to do more than stare to rouse the Boss, because his eyelights ignite, sharp and callous. A glow forms in one of his palms, an attack starting to congeal into a shape.

“Hey there, uh, look I know you don’t like me and you have a good reason not to, but I think we’re all tired and there’s far better spots to sleep in this place in this crate. Wouldn’t you like your friend to have a nice, soft bed? And if you need an enclosed space, there’s a whole, little house I’m sure Blue and Honey would let you two borrow.” Your rambling apparently appeases his hostility...for now. The attack fades, though his expression remains guarded, suspicious. “And, um, food! We you should eat something. Keep your strength up. But you don’t have to. I won’t force you or anything.”

“WHY WOULD I WOULD I TAKE FOOD FROM YOU? THERE IS NOTHING STOPPING YOU FROM LACING IT WITH POISON LIKE WE’RE COMMON RATS TO BE DISPOSED OF AT YOUR LEISURE.”

You wince, “I’d never do that! That’s just awful, and people who would are twisted and wrong. Also, I didn’t just pay a ridiculous vet bill to hurt the both of you.” 

The Boss once more quiets, dragging the bundled ball of bones onto his lap, the smaller one looking a little rosy and damp from his fever. You sigh and shuffle over to the bittie house while on your knees, popping open the lid. Honey has been industrious since starting this project. No paper mache walls yet, but a couple of the ‘chambers’ are stuffed full of soft things, such as small stuffed animals, dish rags and scrap memory foam. His work reminds you of a squirrel making a nest and you wonder if you’ll be buying hand towels monthly from now on. At least they’re readily available at the dollar store.

You spot their clothes strung up on makeshift hangers (likely Blue’s work) and realize that the pair need something to wear. Even if just for the short time they stay with you. They’re self-aware and clearly uncomfortable wandering around undressed, so it would be cruel to leave them barebones for the duration. With a quick, apologetic look at your Helpers, you pilfer a set of clothes from each of them, and drop the outfits into the crate, before shutting the lid on the house.

“I’ll go make some food for everyone. How about you get settled for the night?” And with that, you stand up and leave the room, taking the supplements with you. Not the wisest choice, given one of the bitties is a bit stabby, but you’re running on less than fumes, and the moment you stop busying yourself, you’ll fall apart. To you surprise, Blue stays behind with the pair, and it is Honey that joins you in the kitchen, teleporting onto the counter as you open the fridge. 

“let us take care of this, sunny.” Your hand closes around the egg carton. “please.” Should you add milk? Calcium couldn’t hurt. You grab it too. “sunny!” Eggs, milk, bowl, pan, salt...you lay out the needed things beside the stove and go looking for your spatula. Oh, you should read what it says on the magic pellets. Did they need to eat the supplements alone or could you add them to food? A quick scan of the label reveals that either is fine since the contents are crystalized magic, and will turn any food it is added to essentially into monsterfood. Huh. Interesting. 

You’re mixing together the eggs with some salt, the pan heating when you hear Mia’s voice, sleepy and confused. You whirl, spotting Honey next to the milk, your cellphone in his hands. He has your face calling app open and illuminated by her own screen is Mia, peering through at you in her rumpled, half-asleep state, curly hair looking ready to devour her whole head. The fork you’re whisking with slips from numb fingers. Tears collect in your eyes in an instant as the urge to cry tightens your throat. Half of you is furious with Honey for his audacity, for waking up your friend at 2 a.m., and the other half pangs with the utter relief of hearing your best friend’s voice. As if her presence could make the whole world a little better. 

The bittie nods as you pick up the phone, and much like Blue, uses his magic to float the egg mix and the pan with startling dexterity. 

“Hun? Babe, what’s wrong, why you calling me this early?” Mia asks, yawning, not quite alert enough to be in full mother hen mode. “Is something wrong with the skellies?” She must see your expression because she sits up, nose practically to the screen, “Nightmare? Hun, talk to me, please.” And just like that, your willpower crumbles, fat, ugly tears streaming down your face, muttering sorry like a prayer as you just curl up on the kitchen floor, barely registering the cold, hard tile. “Do to I need to come over?” She sounds so serious. Like she is halfway to jumping out of bed and into her car. The car accident wasn’t very long ago, and at the same time, it felt like eons in the past. So much had happened in a short time and your messed up brain can’t handle the stress anymore. You’re broken. You held yourself together for years, and here you are, cracking apart because of some late work nights and a vet visit. 

Pathetic. Worthless. Weak.

You want to scream.

“I’m coming over.”

“No. D-don’t,” you croak out, clinging to the device like a lifeline. “I’m sorry.”

You hear the jangle of keys, “Don’t you dare hang up on me, got it?”

“Sorry.”

Mia keeps talking, but you hardly hear a thing over your own muddled thoughts. Figments both real and false dance across your mind, each a painful reminder of your inadequacy. The argument with your mother. Blood creeping down Mia’s face. Your skin mottled with indentions from fingernails dug deep. The screech of tires. The sensation of twisting, tumbling, tossing. Down. Down. Down. You recall swimming in the ocean once and being caught in a riptide. There was no lifeguard. The waves were high, dangerous, each time you broke the surface, a crest slapped you in the back of the head and dragged you under. Impossible to tell down from up, your only thought to snag another gasp of air. Helpless. Drowning. You were drowning. Are drowning. 

“breathe.”

You can’t breathe. If you breathe the water will get in. Will fill your lungs. You will die. Oh god you’re dying! Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Won’t breathe. Need to be breathe. But maybe it would be better. If. you. Just. stopped…?

“come back to me, sunny. you’re safe. you’re in your apartment. sitting in the kitchen. can’t you feel it? the tile is cold.” Someone (Honey) moves you hand, manipulating stiff fingers to lay flat. “feel my hands. they’re not very soft, unlike yours. they’re poky and boney. but they’re great for making a skele-ton of cool puns about.” His phalanges wrap around your knuckles, your fingers curl, sensation returning in time to feel your nails digging to the flesh of your palm. Your other hand shoots up and digs into the back of your neck as you gasp down oxygen, eyes clamped shut, head aching and muzzy. “easy. c’mon, sunny, i need you to relax. breathe in. breathe out.” 

You don’t know how long you’re there, lost and trembling, but enough passes that Mia arrives, knocking on your door with familiar authority. You peer down at your phone, the screen black. It must have run out of power. “I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble, weak as a doe as you force yourself to stand. As you prop up on the counter, the door swings open, Mia having employed her personal key to get in. Upon seeing her, tears prick hot in you eyes again, guilt and shame flooding like an overtaxed dam. She’s in her sleepwear, a pair of gym shorts and a Minnie Mouse T-Shirt. The same one she was wearing when you two met, the both of you haggard from the plight that were 8 am classes. It’s worn and a little faded, a hole in the hem, no good for wearing out on the town when you’re as fashion conscious as Mia, but still kept all the same. After all, Minnie is her favorite character…

The relief on her face could break a thousand hearts, and she half-tackles you, arms tight. “Thank god you’re okay.” She sniffs, a wet sound. Had she been crying? Was she crying? The pair of you end up curled on the couch, just hugging, assuring each other that the other is there, alive and well. And for a moment, you remember that Mia was affected by the accident too. Yet here she was, up at who-knows-o-clock, as if you’re the only one who went through trauma. When she pulls away, she smooths your hair, and tuts, “Look at us, sobbing all over each other like a pair of knuckleheads. And you’re still dressed in your work clothes. Let’s get you a glass of water and you into the shower.”

“But…”

She is already off. When she returns, it’s with a plastic cup, ice cub clunking against the insides. “I don’t think those eggs can be saved. What do you think about cereal?”

“Wasn’t for me…” Her imperious lifted brow makes you feel two inches tall, “In the bedroom. It’s the reason I’m late. There were two of them and they needed help and they’re hurt and it’s partly my fault and now they’re here and—”

“Hun, it’s fine. I just want to make sure you eat. Now drink your water and take a shower. I’ll go see what the skellie boys need.”

You don’t deserve Mia.

But you do what she tells you all the same.

 

When you emerge from the shower, clad in soft sweats, Mia is sitting by the bittie house, Blue and Honey perched on her knees. There’s a bowl of dry cereal and a cup of milk waiting for you. With reluctance, you sit, and begin to eat, relaxing a hint when the Helpers clamber onto your lap. Mia’s smile is affectionate. “They told me what happened. You’ve got your hands full.”

You nod, “Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“No idea. I can’t even count to five, much less make long term plans right now, Minnie.”

“Fair.” She eyes your little singleton bed, “You need to upgrade to at least a full.”

“Why? So I can kick you in my sleep?”

“I’ve got a little sister who kicks me in the head when we’re sleeping, I don’t notice anything less.” It’s been a long time since the two of you ended up bunking together. Mia’s is an opportunistic cuddler and you...well, you’re bad at sharing. It always worked out in the past. But she is right. There was no way the two of you were squeezing onto your bed, so if Mia was planning on staying, then someone is delegated to the couch. “I’m going to have to sneak off early so I can get ready for work, so I’ll be in the living room if you need me. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

“Wouldn’t matter. I’ve got work.”

“Hun, just take a day.”

“But—”

“Please.”

You bend beneath her stare and bob your head, watching as she picks up her bowl and wanders out of the room. You’re ready to stand up and do the same when the Boss bittie pokes his head out, reminding you that you’d promised food before your breakdown. Given your poor progress on the cereal, it was as good a meal as any to offer, you supposed. A minute later, you sat back down with the pellets, dissolving one into the bowl and mixing the cereal into a sad mush. Whoops. Then you push it to the door of the bittie house. The Boss growls but after a few moments, succumbs to what must be a severe hunger, because he starts shoveling in fistfuls with his bare hands. He’s clad in Blue’s attire of all things. Instead of Honey’s large, comfy sweater and pants, he has on a white tee that barely covers his ribcage and a pair of cargo shorts that stop mid thighbone. All of his chips and scars are evident, laid bare for all to see.

When he finishes, he retreats back into the house without so much as a thank you.

You glance at your phone, only to remember it’s dead. It had to be close to three or four in the morning. Meaning that even if you fell asleep now, you’d be useless at work. Great. Another missed day. You plug in the device to charge, cleaning up the dish and brushing your teeth, and send a text once it has enough juice to power on. 

The sun is peeking through your window by the time you fight for the first beats of a fitful and shallow sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The injured bittie finally wakes up.
> 
> [(You interested in doing a writing trade with me? Check out my tumblr post.)](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/185110551537/wanna-trade)


	14. Feral

You jackknife awake to a screech, followed by a thump, and catch sight of Blue tumbling across the floor with the Boss bittie. There are twin bones of crimson in the larger bittie’s hands, which he tries to jab into the side of Blue’s neck, but Blue literally picks him up by the soul and chucks him across the room. Not the best way to start your morning. Then again, you should have known better than to leave them to their own devices. Like an idiot who brought a feral cat home and just let it roam free despite there being a resident feline who’d already gotten into a scrap with him once. 

“s’okay, sunny, they’re not hurtin’ each other.” Honey says from your pillow, head propped on one arm. How was he not more concerned? “look at the bones, they’re blunt.” The Boss slung a barrage of bullets, which Blue darted about to avoid, his eyelights gleaming stars in their sockets. Was...Blue enjoying this? Sweet, precious Blue?

“I thought most bitties were pacifists!”

“what’cha know about monster culture?”

A flush creeps across your face, “Apparently not enough.”

Honey nods and stretches, “those two are havin’ a conversation. bitties cannot engage in the encounter system, but we can still communicate our intentions through our magic. bossman is stressed and frustrated, and needs an outlet. a physical one. bosses don’t just like to fight, they need it, but without a proper sparring partner, they’ll lash out, and easily become bullies. humans have a hard time understandin’ it, even humans like frisk, but blue? he gets it. and he needs an outlet as much as anyone to be happy, even if he won’t admit it. there’s an underlying tone to their whole exchange that only someone sensitive to magic can hear, and it’s basically, anything goes unless someone gets hurt.”

“So they’re sparring and not trying to murder each other?”

“that’s the long and short of it.”

The boss snarls and lunges at Blue, knocking aside the other’s attempt to form a bullet, and hoisting the smaller up by his scarf. They’re nose-to-nose when Blue flicks the other bittie’s facial scar, and gets himself thrown to the ground as the Boss starts stringing together swears that you never thought to combine. Apparently the cracks were sensitive. Too twitchy to allow this to continue, you cleared your throat clambered to their side, scooping up Blue and reaching out to check on the Boss. “You okay...uh, little guy?”

There’s a flash of red and your finger erupts in pain as the bittie chomps down, lashing out without a blink of hesitation.Tears spring to your eyes and you recoil, somewhat surprised by the lack of blood. He didn’t pierce skin. The angry bittie staggers back, sockets narrow, distrusting. 

You wish Mia was still here. But no, she is no doubt in the middle of a shift right now, meaning you have to just...figure your shit out. Like an adult. Why couldn’t you keep your head straight after that accident? You were perfectly fine before then and now...now you are ready to fall apart and cry like a miserable little child because the bittie you ‘rescued’ doesn’t like you. Probably hates you, even. Grow. Up. 

Suddenly, all three of bitties jerk their attention to the house in startling unison, and the Boss bolts, tearing into the bin home like the fires of hell were at his heels. Had something happened to the sick little guy? You push aside your hurt, replacing it easily with concern, and pop open the plastic lid, peering inside in time to see the Boss grab the bundled ball of bones into his arms, “YOU LAZY FUCKER!” Alright then. If not for the ache in his accusation, you’d think he was ready to dust the other, “I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU SO MUCH.” Little sparks of watery rose form weak disks in the small bittie’s sockets. 

“hate yer too, boss,” rasped the smaller of the pair, weariness shifting into confusion. His skull lolled to the side and he drank in the oversized sweater swamping his form, hand lifting weakly before dropping. Then, as if realizing he wasn’t in some kind of dream, he stiffened, eyelights shrinking into hard, ruby pin prinks, that darted in his sockets like mosquitoes on a balmy summer night. “where are we?” Those little lights shot up, gutting out upon landing on your face. His breathing became quick and overt, and he clawed at the Boss with all the strength he could manage, bubbles of red magic welling up in his sockets like tears. “b-b-boss!” The larger bittie snarls, eyelights flaring, and curls defensively around what you now assumed was a Cherry. And you decide that a little privacy is due and shut the lid.

You swallow.

Blue and Honey are silent.

For a solid minute no one does anything but breathe.

“I should make breakfast,” you break the moment to escape the room. Hopefully cereal is good enough, even the second time in a row, because you’re not certain you have the attention span to do more than pour milk in a bowl. Blue and Honey remain behind, both perched by the bittie house, and they are still there when you return. Magic laced cheerios for the boys and plain for you. You also brought in the bag from the vet, with the bath additive and healing ointment still untouched within. How are you going to manage to coax either into letting you help? 

The Helpers fill their bellies quickly, meaning you’re only halfway done when Blue puts some undisclosed plan into motion. Because he stands up, brushes off his pants and marches into the house like there aren’t two vicious strays inside. A few seconds later, there’s an offended shriek, another thump, and some scuffling. Then Blue returns outside, grinning victoriously as Boss (might as well just call him that since he seems to respond to it) follows him out, still cradling the Cherry.

“TOUCH HIM AND I WILL END YOU, HUMAN,” Boss snarls, low and dark, before perching by the bowl and fishing out handfuls of cereal goop. He doesn’t fill his own mouth, but instead, jams a fist practically into the Cherry’s jaws. Delicate he is not. The Cherry squeaks and sputters, struggling against the other’s forceful caretaking, eventually going lax as he resigned himself to being fed. His whole skull lit up pink, though something told you it isn’t from a fever. Blue huffs and tuts, before strolling over to Boss and poking his shoulder. 

“You’re being too rough!”

“FUCK YOU! I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, RUNT!”

Once more, the poor Cherry choked.

“Look, Boss, we only want to help,” Blue’s voice drops into a soothing pitch. The kind people use on angry cats or screaming toddlers. “You do not have to think of us as friends, but we are allies. We want you and him to eat and heal, which means good meals and medicine and rest. It would be better if you let Mama help you with all that, but if you don’t wish it, Honey and I are fully trained to perform basic medical care such as first aid.”

“WE DON’T NEED YOUR HELP! JUST OPEN THE DOOR AND LET US FREE OF THIS PRISON AND WE’LL BE ON OUR WAY.”

“I can’t in good conscious allow that, my friend.”

“THEN DIE IN A DITCH.”

“b-b-boss, ease up. j-just a little.”

“SHUT UP, WHELP!”

The Cherry sits up and to your surprise, peeks over the edge of the bowl, reaching in with one hand himself. Before he snags a cheerio, he peeks up, catching your stare, and quails, flinching like he’s broken some unspoken rule. But when no reprimand comes from you, he snakes out a tiny palm and snatches up a morsel. Not bad for a little fellow that was dying a couple hours ago and still has an overbearing bittie clutching him around the middle. There’s hope for him yet. He nibbles on the bite, “see, i c-can feed m’self.”

Boss grumbles but doesn’t continue mashing food into the poor bittie’s maw like he’s literally trying to murder him with kindness. He instead watches the Cherry eat his fill before gobbling up the remnants of the cereal. It is unexpectedly...thoughtful. Bosses aren’t known for their altruism. 

“Um, I know you don’t want me touching you two, but you guys should take a bath. Get the sticky cereal off your hands as well as this medicated stuff on your bones.” You rattle the box of bath additive that supposedly would help with healing. Boss starts growling, back peddling towards the bittie house like he expected you to grab him if he so much as took a single eyelight off you. “Uh...please? It’s supposed to make you feel better. And you want your friend to feel better, right? The sooner he’s patched up, the sooner you can leave?” There is pure skepticism on his skull. You don’t blame you. You don’t believe you either. Bitties aren’t supposed to be able to live without a human or monster companion. To thrust them back onto the streets didn’t settle well in your gut, but you couldn’t keep them here unwillingly. Who knew what they’d do to Blue or Honey once they were stronger! 

Honey took the opportunity to wander over to the bathroom, humming softly as he rummaged, eventually finding something he wanted, because you hear the sink start to run. 

“I’ll try to get your old clothes cleaned up if you two bathe. That way you have your stuff back.” You’re uncertain how much you could salvage of those rags, but, maybe, even a piece of two might be enough familiarity to settle the pair some. 

“y-y-yer have m-my jacket and c-c-collar?” The Cherry sounds outright hopeful. Like you just promised him the stars and moon. He tugs on Boss’ sleeve, “i want’em b-back.” Boss looks murderous, like he’d cut your throat and pry out your eyeballs if he had the chance, but no threats spewed forth. Instead he stands up, as straight and proud as he can manage, and stalks into the bathroom. Blue scoops up the medication from you with magic and bounces after them. Despite the fights, despite the threats, despite everything...your little baby blue kept forging forward. 

You take the now empty bowls into the kitchen. There are dishes to wash. And like anytime Mia visited, vacuuming to be done. Just one sleepover and there is hair all over your living room and couch. 

 

About an hour later, your apartment is cleaner than it’s been all week. All because you need to keep busy to avoid wandering into the bedroom, and possibly upsetting your houseguests. No screams or noises of conflict came from the other room, so you told yourself that all was managed and fine. Your Helpers are capable bitties. Blue can go toe-to-toe with Boss and the Cherry didn’t seem the violent type. You check the dryer after putting away the vacuum. That ratty collar with its tacky spikes laid on the countertop, still wet, alongside their shoes, but the rest you hand washed and popped into the dryer on low. You would give back whatever didn’t disintegrate. 

Finding that the jacket the Cherry seemed to favor isn’t hopeless and just a little damp, you pull it out and laid it on a hand towel to air dry. Boss’ clothes are in worse shape, especially that tatty strip of red he had wrapped around his neck like a scarf. But so far, the only casualty is the Cherry’s shirt. It isn’t much a shirt anymore. 

“hey, sunny.”

You near jump out of your skin, squeaking at the sound of Honey’s voice right at your ear. “Holy angels above, Honey. Careful. I almost threw you.”

He chuckled, “that would’ve been impressive.”

“So, uh, how are they? You sure you should leave Blue in there with them by himself?”

“they’re fine. red fell asleep in the bath and didn’t wake up even when the edgelord shook the water off him, and played doc. guy’s pretty used to being manhandled if he can sleep through all that.”

“Red?”

“yup. heard bossman call’em that when he wasn’t cussin’ everyone out for existing. he was even calm enough after the mineral bath and mothering red, that he let blue put ointment on him. strong stuff. that or edgy guy is more tired than he wants to let on. i’d believe either at this point.”

“...Honey....”

“hm?”

You smoothed a hand over the little jacket and its stained, fleece hood, “I’m sorry for putting you both through this. You two didn’t sign up for—”

“nah, you can stop there,” he patted your jaw. “we’re helpers. we help. we like fixing and healing. we’re gonna get you to where you can be the best you possible, and if that means patching up some strays, then that’s what we’ll do. if we weren’t cool with it, we’d tell ya, or call frisk. we’re not helpless.”

“...Okay. Yeah...okay.”

“think you can sleep some more?”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“worse.”

“You’re such a sweet talker. The most charming bittie in the known universe.”

“i aim to please.”

With a sigh, you move to the bedroom, opening the door to find Blue perched outside the bittie house door. The others had to be inside. Probably sleeping. Yeah, a nap sounded pretty good. 

So you gave up on any delusion of productivity and curled up on your singleton, drifting off a little deeper and easier than the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER: Reader wakes up to a surprise. 
> 
> Boss likes telling everyone to go die in ditches and has terrible bedside manner. 
> 
> Wanna do an art or writing trade with me? Check out [this post on my tumblr](https://catsitta.tumblr.com/post/185961644237/wanna-trade).


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